


Down The Brilliant Dream

by MayQueen517



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Big Bang, Canon Queer Relationship, Celeste and Lykon get guest starring roles because I love them your honor, Declarations Of Love, F/F, Families of Choice, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Oracle!Nile, of a sort, self-created mythology, takes place before and after At The Crossings of Two Heart Lines, title from an Indigo Girls lyric, which is basically what you need to know about me writing this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayQueen517/pseuds/MayQueen517
Summary: Quynh has been dreaming of someone for all of her life. It's only when she seeks out the source of these dreams that things begin to change.Featuring art by the amazingiwritesometimes!===Quỳnh follows the line of her hand, looking for something, for anything, to tell her what Nile could be seeing. She sees the flicker of something at the corner of her eyes, the grey of impure steel and the inky blue-black of the deep sea where Quỳnh used to fish with her family.The glimpse of pale skin that Quỳnh can see is less surprising for the shade and more for the lack of blood on those high cheekbones. The crown that Quỳnh manages to see is dark and spiked, glimmering menacingly, as though it were a predator waiting to ambush an unsuspecting hunter.The woman's eyes are intent as she looks straight across the battlefield, straight to Nile. Quỳnh moves to pull her sword, watching the woman's gaze slide to her, staring intently. Her hand lets go of the blade, struck by the face that has haunted her dreams for years since childhood.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Nile Freeman/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 40
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	Down The Brilliant Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At The Crossings of Two Heart Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163598) by [MayQueen517](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayQueen517/pseuds/MayQueen517). 



> There are so many things to say and I certainly don't have the room for them here. I'll keep it (sort of) brief because I am really excited to share this fic! 
> 
> First and foremost thanks go to the amazing saellys who has made this so much better and has been an absolute source of support. This fic has benefited from your invaluable input and I'm so grateful for it.
> 
> My dear aphroditestummyrolls, you have been a total pillar of support through this whole process and I am so delighted to share the finished product with you.
> 
> Last, but certainly not least: Xandri, my friend, thank you for your unwavering encouragement and suggestions. You helped nurture me and this fic and it has been so so so wonderful to share this with you. I can never say thank you enough. <3
> 
> And finally: Thank you SO SO SO MUCH to my wonderful artist, [iwritesometimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritesometimes/pseuds/iwritesometimes) who has been so kind through this process and you should check out her [tumblr](https://iwritesometimes.tumblr.com/) as well as her ao3! Thank you!
> 
> Title is from the song 'Love of our Lives' by the Indigo Girls.
> 
> Enjoy!

===

If you take a path, what's the worst that happens?

You could be lost. You could die.

But death isn't always the end of a story.

===  
Quỳnh walks the path to the river, knowing she should be focusing on her prayers or even being mindful. She walks to the rushing water, unusually calm despite her own buzzing mind as she stands on the bank. The river plants on the edge wave in the early light as she ties the hem of her chiton around her knees. She secures the bottom of the skirt into the belt at her waist, making the chiton into something like the trousers she has seen traders wear.

"I have no prayers for you," Quỳnh says hoarsely. Her chiton is splattered with blood, legs as well. Her skin is sticky with sweat and the aftermath of defending the temple from invaders. She chokes on a sob, not thinking of the youngest who died defending the oldest, their small hands curled around their daggers even in death.

"I am sorry. I need to gather from you and I do not remember the words," Quỳnh says, trying to remember the prayers for peace as she steps into the water. It's cold, as it always is, and despite the chill, she sighs into it. The silt pulls around her feet as she takes a few slow steps into the riverbed, planting herself firmly.

She lets the river rush around her legs for a few moments, eyes closed and tilted back into the morning sun. The fog is evaporating as the sun rises and she sighs. Quỳnh dips her fingers into the water, humming the old work songs she can still hear in her mother's voice.

"I don't know what I seek, only that I have had these dreams for as long as I can remember," Quỳnh says, swaying with the current as she picks rushes and stalks to make the basket she had sketched just after breaking her fast.

"It is always a woman, a lonely woman," Quỳnh says, turning to lay the fronds on the shore, gently moving upstream. "I couldn't tell you her name, only that I know her. I know her in my soul the way I know my sisters. I know her like I know your currents, old friend."

Quỳnh loses herself in harvesting the oldest shoots, a pile growing on the embankment as she talks to the river around her. She looks back at her pile of leaves, ready to be woven into the basket she has dreamed of. The sun is high in the sky as she lets loose with a sob, allowing the river to carry her grief away.

"I give my grief to you," Quỳnh says formally as she sinks to sitting in the silt and the cold water. Her chiton flows around her, the water washing her sweat-dampened skin as she lets the river wash her clean. The current pulls at the skirt in her belt, letting it flow around her, blood washing away. The stains there linger but she allows herself a few moments to sob with loss, the water carrying her grief away, leaving her bare and calm.

When she walks back to the temple, chiton soaked and arms full of river plants for weaving, Quỳnh takes the peace of the river with her.

===

Andromache. Andronika. Andrea.

So many names for so many years.

The Harbinger.

Hades.

The names that others call Andromache are rarely accurate, even if she finds herself walking the battlefields, sending souls to their rest. She has been on so many before.

Years and millennia blur into one another, a seemingly endless cycle of death upon death. As she surveys her realm, she hears laments and joy from the rivers around her; Andromache exists somewhere between.

Perhaps, were she mortal, she would spend her afterlife in the Asphodel Meadows, unremarkable and unmissed.

Instead, she drifts through an underworld of her own making.

Andromache steps through the sands of time and over the banks of the Styx, the Acheron, and the Lethe, wishing one of them would offer relief from her long life.

"Could it be? The mighty Andromache has come down from her throne to visit me?" calls the Ferryman, mischief in his voice. Andromache laughs softly, looking to the young man before her. His smile is bright for his job, ferrying the souls to their respective places. He shines like the sun above that Andromache has forgotten the warmth of until he smiles.

Lykon has always been a generous soul.

"The mighty Andromache is mighty tired, my friend," Andromache says as Lykon pushes his boat to the sand. His skin is warm, smelling of oils and funerary rites as he has since he first came to her, seeking to help. He sees to the heart of matters in a way that even Andromache cannot.

"Perhaps your tired is another person's loneliness," Lykon says, lowering himself to sit on the slats in the boat. Andromache gathers her chiton around her, fabric around her arms encircling her. The dark purples and blues of the fabric reflect the glow of the souls around her who are under her command. She steps into the boat to Lykon's surprise, smiling softly at him.

Lykon pushes off the shore, allowing them to drift as Andromache reconnects with the souls around her and the riches within. They exist with each other, silent and companionable as Andromache sighs softly, peering into the Styx below them. She can see the good and the bad--more of one than the other depending on the time.

War is raging.

So many wars have been raging.

Andromache sometimes longs for her old weapons, for wind at her back and the ax in her hand as she and her siblings fought against the Titans. She rubs her fingers together, the rasp of dry skin like the spark of kindling in the quiet of the Ferryman's boat.

"You are lost in thought," Lykon says, leaning on the barge pole that steers them through the seven turns about the underworld.

"They are growing better at death," Andromache says, hearing the roar of fire from the Phlegethon river. “Tartarus grows ever full as the evil and the wicked die in battle or by misadventure.”

"They are also growing better at living."

"Must you always be so optimistic?" Andromache asks, tilting her head over to Lykon. Lykon's flash of a smile warms her chest, making her wish she could have met him as a younger woman. She wishes she could be that woman again.

"I will be your balance, my friend," Lykon says, meeting her eyes in the way he always has. Andromache knows that they swirl with the knowledge of punishment and pain and peace and joy and that it is often uncomfortable to gaze upon.

She also knows that Lykon has never had that problem.

"And if I don't need balance?"

"We all need balance, Andromache. Even the mighty ruler of the underworld," Lykon says fondly, pushing them around the bend so that they cross into the path of the river that encircles the world, Oceanus. The desolation of the rivers Styx and Acheron fades slowly but surely as Andromache allows herself to relax in the boat.

"Perhaps," Andromache finally allows, tilting her head to the ocean breeze, watching the world go by.

===  
  


The basket is heavy on her arm, woven from the leaves of the river plants near the temple. Quỳnh had gathered them, murmuring prayers for guidance and peace, weaving them together while Nile and the others in their guild sang quietly. Quỳnh shifts the basket, catching the scent of garlic and the woody, sweet scent of the boughs of yew.

She descends the stairs, worn smooth with time and tears, finding herself at the point of welcome, or warning.

The craggy blue-grey rock around her is imposing until the sun shifts and she remembers what Nile had cautioned, hands cupping Quỳnh's cheek.

_"Not all crossroads are evil. Greet her with respect and kindness and she will repay the same," Nile murmurs, lips pressing to Quỳnh's forehead in farewell. The sun sets behind her, setting her frame and the jewelry in her hair aglow._

_Quỳnh leaves with the scent of Nile's perfume drifting around her, a welcome reminder of where she had been._

Looking down at the twined wreath of yew, garlic, and oak boughs, she takes a slow, deep breath. She smells the crushed cypress in the basket, fragrant and cushioning her offerings on her walk, gathered on the road (a blessing, she had thought at the time). Her chiton, dyed red with madder root before her journey, swirls about her legs, reminding her of home and the travels before her.

She can still feel the ache of the dye paddles in her arms, laughter echoing in her throat as Quỳnh stands before the stone entrance way. The flicker of firelight flashes like lightning before a coming storm, the torch anchored to the wall as she casts a glance behind her.

In the distance, she can see the signal fire from the temple, a speck of light as the sun slips beneath the horizon.

"You are a long way from home."

The voice is accented, startling Quỳnh as she looks around for the source. The woman before her is pale, draped in a chiton the color of the night sky on an autumn evening. The woven belt of gold and silver at her waist glints like a setting sun. Her dark hair drifts in short and long strands, a flicker of change with every blink of Quỳnh's eyes.

"I come seeking guidance through doorways I know not," Quỳnh says formally, holding the basket between her and the woman before her. Quỳnh watches her dark eyes glimmer with amusement as she waves a hand, the torches glowing brighter. Her slender fingers motion to Quỳnh, allowing her entrance to a tidy common area, doors around her shifting and changing as Quỳnh tries to track them.

"I don't recommend that," the woman says, a smile on her lips as her chiton sways about with an unseen breeze. "It isn't easy for mortals to comprehend, and you seem interesting. But travel and guidance isn't all you are here for."

She tilts her head, giving the impression of a bird of prey; one of the large birds that Nile enjoys feeding. Quỳnh tears her eyes away from the doors to focus on the woman in front of her.

"I am Quỳnh. And I come seeking a woman I saw on the battlefield."

"A battlefield is no place for a woman," the woman says, a hint of mischief curling her lips. Quỳnh scoffs, a rude sound that makes a smile break onto the woman's face before her.

"Those sound like the words of Zeus, and I was assured that you were not a woman of Zeus," Quỳnh says, challenging. Her heart thuds painfully, terror thrumming through her as the woman leans closer. Quỳnh wonders at what Nile would say here, if Nile would apologize.

Nile would probably apologize.

Quỳnh has never been good with apologies.

"You are a bold woman, Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh," the woman says. Her fingers are cold and warm at the same time as she places her fingers on Quỳnh's hand where it clutches the basket.

"I am Celeste. And I am no woman of Zeus," Celeste says with a sneer, fingers gentle on Quỳnh's hand.

"Tell me of this woman you saw."

===

The field below the temple is strewn with dead and dying men, like a straw house blown over. Quỳnh surveys the dead, blood and sweat running down her face in pink streams before she drags her sleeve across her face, gasping for air, sword dripping with blood. She cleans it in quick motions, discarding her sash behind her as she walks, seeking her guild and the women who protected the temple with her.

Nile stands on the steps, face haunted, her own blade drenched in blood that lays in splatters over her dark brown skin. Her chiton, once pale, saffron yellow, is stained crimson at the bottom, as though it has been dipped into the madder root dye that Lamai is known for. Shock settles onto the creases of Niles face, dripping from her hair after a ferocious battle to not let the invaders defile their temple the way they have so many behind them.

"Nile," Quỳnh calls out, stowing her sword as she takes in the sight of the other members of their guild mourning the loss of sisters. Quỳnh only has eyes for Nile and the shock that steals the color from her lips.

Her eyes cloud, like the fog that rolls away as the sun rises in the sky and Quỳnh holds her breath.

Nile is the most gifted of them all, their Oracle of the Temple, despite her young age, and Quỳnh recognizes her posture for the True Sight it contains. Nile reaches out, voice ululating over the now quiet battlefield as she sings a long-forgotten mourning song.

Quỳnh follows the line of her hand, looking for something, for anything, to tell her what Nile could be seeing. She sees the flicker of something at the corner of her eyes, the grey of impure steel and the inky blue-black of the deep sea where Quỳnh used to fish with her family.

The glimpse of pale skin that Quỳnh can see is less surprising for the shade and more for the lack of blood on those high cheekbones. The crown that Quỳnh manages to see is dark and spiked, glimmering menacingly, as though it were a predator waiting to ambush an unsuspecting hunter.

The woman's eyes are intent as she looks straight across the battlefield, straight to Nile. Quỳnh moves to pull her sword, watching the woman's gaze slide to her, staring intently. Her hand lets go of the blade, struck by the face that has haunted her dreams for years since childhood.

The face across the battlefield is the same face that brought her to the Temple, searching for answers.

As quickly as Quỳnh sees her, the woman disappears and Quỳnh knows loss like no other.

"I saw her too," Nile says, voice weak as it is after a vision.

Quỳnh doesn't know if that's comforting or not.

===

"I have dreamed of her since I was a child. As though the threads of our life are weaving together," Quỳnh says, earnest as Celeste hums softly, amusement gentling.

"Such pretty words," Celeste says, fingertips trailing over the weave of the basket. "I wonder if you truly know of whom you have dreamed."

"I have seen her in my dreams. I have seen her happy with the Ferryman. I have seen her mourning humanity with you; you who controls the fate of us all with a string. You dare to tell me that I don't know of whom I dream?" Quỳnh spits, fighting against the urge to stand. She knows that the oldest member of the Temple would have watched and tutted at her, in the way that says Quỳnh still has much to learn.

"You are meddling with that which you do not yet understand," cautions Celeste. Her voice is dangerous and Quỳnh sees, suddenly, the child she was and the elderly women she will one day be. She sees all the ways Celeste exists and Quỳnh has to look away from the changes she sees in just a moment over the woman's face.

"I did not always have this form, you understand. I have not always been the woman before you. This form was a gift and the powers that come with it are often a curse. Would you like to know the way everyone you leave behind dies?" Celeste threatens, anger making the torches flare around her. The common area feels less welcome but Quỳnh meets her unchanging eyes.

"We all must die, Celeste. Death does not scare me," Quỳnh says, watching Celeste recede back into her seat, eyes fathomless and Quỳnh fancies she can see just how old the person in front of her is. She thinks of a sister left behind and Quỳnh takes a chance, reaching out.

Quỳnh's rough hands catch on Celeste's softer ones. She watches Celeste fade back into the young woman she first met.

"What scares you then, brave Quỳnh?"

"Not knowing," Quỳnh replies honestly. She pushes the basket over the table, watching Celeste take in the contents, mouth dropping open ever so slightly.

"Aconite. Dittany. Mandrake. On a bed of cypress with a wreath of yew, garlic, and oak. You _are_ courting favor, aren't you?" Celeste asks, warmth leeching back into her face as she crushes a leaf with her thumb. The air smells like growing things, like the garden that Quỳnh tends with Nile and Fatima, and Quỳnh is reminded of her own mother, so many years before.

"Please," Quỳnh says, soft and timid in a way she hasn't been for many years. She allows Celeste to see her for all her fears and worries and when she hears Celeste inhale slowly, only then does she meet Celeste's eyes.

"There are rules to follow, you understand?" Celeste asks as Quỳnh's heart leaps, a flutter of nerves sticking behind her chest as Celeste accepts the offering, getting her closer to the woman she has dreamed of.

===

In the beginning, when her realm was new, Andromache had a routine. She kept to the routine, even if she didn't strictly need rest. The world was ever-changing under her feet, the people welcoming her as a part of life or shunning her in their fear.

It was a cycle.

It was a cycle that she ached to break.

Now, Andromache drifts through the hours soundlessly, walking through the realms that are hers and hers alone. She walks through the realms that have been given to others to rule, letting them assume she's checking in on them.

Celeste watches her, eyes seeing the past, present, and future and when Andromache presses for more information, Celeste merely smiles.

"You must be patient and you must be kind."

"Death," Andromache says, "is not kind. Though it is patient."

Celeste leans forward; the knowledge in her eyes gained after so many years thrills Andromache. Knowledge that not even Andromache herself is allowed to know.

"Death after a long fight with illness is a kindness. Death after pain is kind. Do not speak to me of kindness and death, Harbinger," Celeste says, voice firm and deeper than Andromache has heard in a long time. Celeste's voice thrums with authority that even Andromache recognizes.

"I do not feel kind when the people above wage war and fill my rivers with the wails of the mourned," Andromache says finally as Celeste hums softly, reaching out to touch her fingertips to Andromache's forearm.

"You are not responsible for the actions of the people above; only yourself and your actions towards those souls under your care. Sometimes you must finish an old cycle before you can begin anew," Celeste says as Andromache sighs softly, squeezing Celeste's hand in thanks.

Once she longed to break the cycle; now, with Celeste beside her and Lykon nearby, Andromache strides through her underworld, intent on finding a new cycle.

===

Quỳnh doesn't remember the first dream. Or even the first hundred dreams.

She remembers being small, the rainy season had moved in, steady sheets of rain among the greenery that was her home with her sisters. She remembers waking in the middle of the night, sisters curled around her, as she thought of the stern face trying not to laugh. Quỳnh remembers the sound of laughter; playful, she remembers thinking.

The dreams changed as she got older.

Loneliness and grief lead the other woman through her long life, lacking interest in the world around her. Quỳnh doesn't remember much of those dreams, only that the room around the woman was muted in color, like the dead trees that one must uproot and replant with new.

Quỳnh thinks of those dreams like lightning-struck trees, burned away from life, unable to be reborn.

She knows, however, that the most fertile soil is often that which has been burned time and again.

It is with this thought that she takes the first step of her journey.

===

The doorway to Elysium glows with the light of a perfect day, neither too warm, nor too cold. It thrives with the joy that ebbs and flows like the banks of the river which Lykon navigates with ease. He stops them, the barge pole driving into the silt as Andromache looks to him.

"He has been there for three days. He calls for his youngest."

"And just what am I supposed to do about that?" Andromache asks, voice hushed, as though she is the lost soul, refusing to move on. The man is not attempting to sneak into Elysium, therefore Andromache hasn't been notified. She watches him lean against the frame of the doorway, gazing into the sun-drenched fields.

His skin is sallow, the frozen blue-white of a corpse who passed in the dead of winter, when Andromache's spirit infuses the trees, the slumbering Earth, and the bodies of those lost before the thaw.

The man sobs dryly, just once, stifling the sound as he calls out to those behind the doorway. His clothes are military and she sighs, tired all over again as she heaves herself out of the boat.

Andromache approaches him slowly, holding her skirt out of the water. His eyes are shot through with red, the color shocking in the midst of his pale skin. She takes note of his blue lips and the livid mark around his neck. A look into his eyes and she sees the flash of his death.

Hanging.

She stands before him, watching his eyes widen. He is not the first lost soul to sit before her, though usually she is on her throne or they are being sent elsewhere for trying to slip into Elysium. Andromache knows his name like she knows his death; she knows all the ways his wife said his name and how the cries of "Papa" still echo in his heart.

"Sébastien le Livre," she says, watching his hands tremble. Andromache lowers herself into a crouch, uninterested in towering above a frightened and grieving soul.

"W-who are you?" he asks. "Where's my family?"

Andromache sighs, tired already, as she waves her fingers. Small motes of light come to surround them, allowing her a better glimpse of Sébastien's pallor. She hopes the glimpse of her own is a clue and she won't have to convince him the hard way.

She hates the hard way.

"You may call me Andromache, for now. Your family passed in peace, and in peace they rest. You, however, need to move on."

"To join them?" Sébastien asks, eyes pained. She can see the blood receding as he comes to grips with his new reality. His eyes flick over the hard, glittering spires of her crown. Her head moving sends the chains draped over them swinging and his eyes track those.

"I'm afraid not," Andromache says, gently. She stands, offering her hand in a way she has not for many years. Andromache leads Sébastien to the boat where Lykon sits and she gives Lykon a reassuring squeeze when Sébastien recoils from him.

He curls in the corner of the boat, trembling as though he is still freezing, and Andromache begins the process of determining just where this man's soul needs to go.

===

The trail is long and flat, both in terrain and color. It is the shade of a forest, long burned and yet to return to bloom, Quỳnh thinks. Ash seems to linger in the air, a film that settles on her skin in the weak light. The varying shades of black and grey make her feel as if she should have worn mourning clothes. The wails of lost souls drift to her as she walks slowly, hands free from the basket she had gifted to Celeste before stepping through the door.

The rules ring through her head, reminders to not accept food or drink, lest she be trapped forever. Reminders to be truthful with any who ask and to keep the pouch of coins at her hip.

The Ferryman must always be paid, after all.

Quỳnh walks through dirt and sand, but disturbs nothing and kicks up no dust. It shouldn't be alarming, and yet, she finds that to be the most surreal portion of this journey. The burbling of the water nearby is as similar as the river near her temple as Quỳnh approaches it slowly.

The water is dark, flat but for ripples every now and then. It flows swiftly and not at all, as she watches. She knows to not touch the water, though the temptation is stronger than ever.

Amidst the wails of sorrow and shouts of joy, she hears the soft whistle as a boat approaches. The barge pole stops the boat from going any further, the man aboard it peers down at her, curiously.

"You are neither dead nor dying," he says, surprised. His skin is dark brown, his eyes inquisitive. They are as fathomless as the rivers he steers souls through and Quỳnh finds herself speechless. Fear shoots through her, that perhaps the Ferryman will leave her to wander the underworld for all of time, that she will never find the woman she dreams of, and she will never see Nile or the others in her guild again.

"I seek passage," Quỳnh says, reaching into the pouch of coins. The gold glints as her fingertips grasp it, handing it over. The man before her examines it carefully, brown robes over deep brown trousers moving with an unseen breeze. He reminds her of the traders she had seen on her way to the temple, the men with bright smiles and fresh fish for her breakfast. The wrap on his head is similar, the trailing scarf wrapped around his shoulders and over the tan tunic.

"As you are neither dead nor dying, this passage isn't yours," the Ferryman says, kindness making his words gentle.

Quỳnh swallows hard, hands clenching around the pouch of coins. She takes a deep breath, thinking she can smell brine as if she is not far from the place she was born. She steadies herself, meeting his eyes. Though they appear fathomless at first glance, at a second look, they just appear to be dark brown, like her own.

"I am Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh. For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of a woman. She has a proud brow and eyes that are kind but mostly sad. She drapes herself in cloth that shimmers with souls and a crown that tells me how many realms she truly rules. I wish to find her and I have bartered for passage."

Quỳnh feels her hands grow clammy around the gold as the Ferryman tilts his head, studying her. She breathes slowly, centering her emotions as the Ferryman laughs softly.

"So you are the one she has seen," he murmurs, Quỳnh's ears barely catching the words.

Hope flares in her chest, warming her limbs.

"I will take your payment in time. For now, let me take you to meet Andromache."

===

Quỳnh's sandals dig into the softer sand as she walks and walks and walks. The pathway is soft, undisturbed as if this long path is rarely walked upon. Though the path is clear of others, this area is for someone to live in, she thinks. The light is dim here, as though one of the great dust storms has blown through like many of the elders at the temple remember. Though the walls look like the slick rock behind the waterfalls of Quỳnh’s youth, they seem to gleam with an inky black shadow. Her hand stretches out before Quỳnh pulls back in fear. She gathers herself and chances to touch the slick, black wall.

It is like nothing she has ever felt.

Slick and cold, it warms to her touch soon, greedily pulling the heat from her hand. Quỳnh pulls away, marveling over the sharp edges and smooth face that she can nearly see her own reflection in.

"It's obsidian."

The voice makes her jump, staring in fear at the man peering curiously into the hallway. His clothes hang on him, something of a uniform though it does not fit well. She wonders if it ever did.

Is he an invader or a defender?

He watches her, head tilted as he hugs the scrolls in his arms close. She takes a step to him, restraining her reaction to the livid welts around his neck, as though a rope is still biting into the soft skin there.

"Who are you?" Quỳnh asks. The man looks away, fingers drifting up to tuck his collar higher on his neck, and shame pulses through her.

"Sébastien le Livre, at your service," the man says, bending just slightly at the waist as she blinks. He is not like the men from her time, nor is he like any other man she has met. His smile is kind despite the pain in his eyes, and that, more than anything, allows her to step forward.

"I am Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh," she says, clasping his forearm in greeting. He grips hers back reflexively. His face twisting in amusement at the action as she concentrates on not staring at the purpled swells of his fingers or the burst vessels in his eyes.

“I’ve come to meet Andromache,” Quỳnh says finally. Sébastien meets her eyes, the red on his face receding just slightly.

“Follow me,” Sébastien says, a crooked smile crossing his lips.

They walk together in silence, his steps measured and easy, allowing her to keep pace with his longer legs. A kinship between them settles her as he leads her to what is unmistakably a throne room.

The room is humble, despite the throne. The walls are the same black stone (obsidian, she reminds herself) as the hallway, and there are small recesses every few steps. The recesses hold candles, burning steadily despite the soft breeze that caresses her bare arms. If the entrance were a burned forest, this room is a cave made livable, but only just. The shadows impose their height all around her, leaving Quỳnh feeling very small in a place that she has no true business being.

On the throne, perhaps five paces ahead, sits the woman that has haunted Quỳnh's dreams for longer than she has words for. The throne she sits on is smaller than Quỳnh would have expected, though the ornate carvings make up for the size. The woman sitting upon the throne seems remote, eyes sharp yet curious. She seems distant, removed from the man who leads Quỳnh in.

The crown on her head looks heavy, weighing her dark hair down, the waves falling around bare shoulders. Silver chains frame the woman's face, twinkling in the candlelight and the motes of light that seem to swim around her. Her dress - a chiton like the ones they wear at the market, secured by a woven belt at the waist - is a dark blue, nearly grey. Along her pale arms the fabric gathers at even points, secured by buttons that gleam in the low light. Quỳnh steps forward, past Sébastien, meeting the woman's blue-grey eyes.  
  


"I am Quỳnh--"

"Daughter of Khanh, I know," the woman says. Her voice is without a true accent, the accent of one who has lived in many places and stayed in none. She looks to Sébastien, curiosity shining in her eyes.

"How did she get up here?"

" _She_ ," Quỳnh says boldly, "is standing right here."

Quỳnh watches Sébastien's mouth thin, amusement sparking in eyes that reminds Quỳnh of the Ferryman, Lykon.

"So you are," the woman says. She stands, gliding down the steps in soft shoes that produce no echo in the chamber around them. The motes of light flit around her head, settling in the crown and Quỳnh fancies that she can see the stars there in the woman's eyes.

"Tell me," the woman says, walking slowly around Quỳnh, like a hunter closing in on prey, "how did you get here? I know the souls of the dead who pass through my halls and you are not one of them."

Quỳnh takes a deep breath when the woman stands before her. She's taller than Quỳnh, as though she has cloaked herself in the forbidding shadows, and Quỳnh meets her eyes steadily, afraid but unwilling to back down.

"I have dreamed of you for my whole life and possibly before. I came before the Guardian and the Ferryman and they judged me worthy to come here. Please," Quỳnh says as tears gather in her eyes. Her voice trembles but she reigns in the emotion, "I want some answers."

"I can't promise you will like them," the woman cautions, meeting Quỳnh's eyes with something like interest. She seems less aloof now, vibrant in the way that an explosion from far off is.

"Allow me to worry about that," Quỳnh says, unaware of anything beyond the woman in front of her, the woman she has dreamed of and seen out of the corners of her eyes.

"I am Andromache," she says, a break in the remote expression allowing her lip to pull into a slight smile. Quỳnh tells herself the quickening of her heart is simply because of nerves.

===

Andromache is aware of eyes on her.

Sébastien is everywhere, a silent shadow, frozen at the time of his death. Andromache watches him, the way he hides from her gaze, the way his fingers drift to the ever deepening mark around his neck. His lips are bluer than they were before, and she sighs.

She knows why and how the man in the shadows died. She knows of his forgeries, trying to secret his family away and trying to get back to them. Andromache knows of his hanging and his death; the shame that had followed him even into this afterlife at the knowledge that his family was waiting for him.

What Andromache doesn't know, however, is why he is still here.

She strolls around the Underworld, listening for the footsteps behind her, the hesitant shuffle. Andromache smiles to herself, chain draping over her neck and collarbone from the crown she has worn for so many years. The chains from her mother, from her sisters freed after years of her father.

Andromache thinks about her own history: breaking free from her father, using the chains her mother had spent years crafting to imprison him with her brothers. Her own history is a tragedy, the kind that those above perform for amusement.

She steps through the door to dusty tables and shelves, the scent of parchment and inks filling the air.

There are scrolls everywhere. Ones she has penned, ones that Lykon has given voice to, and ones that Andromache has rescued herself from above. She leaves them to the desk that takes up most of a room, remembering the grand table of her youth. Andromache tries to remember the good from that table, rather than the thinly veiled battles that took place over it.

"A library."

Andromache turns, seeing the look on Sébastien's face, one of wonder and awe as he takes in the walls and walls of scrolls. There's a pile on the floor that Andromache hopes he ignores.

"The history of my life and others," Andromache says, reaching out to move a scroll across the table. Sébastien picks it up, gently rolling it out with careful hands, weighting the corners down with obsidian fragments that Andromache once tried her hand at shaping.

"How many are there?" Sébastien asks, bending close, so close that he nearly touches the vellum with his nose. Andromache cups her hand, encouraging one of the motes of light to grow, enough that the light it casts over the small room is like the light with the living.

"More than you or I could count. And I can count very high," Andromache teases, smiling when Sébastien blinks at her, squinting in the light.

"I can organize them," Sébastien offers, rolling the scroll back up in front of him. Andromache walks around the room, touching the piled scrolls gently, fingertips disturbing the dust in the room that has been dark for more years than Andromache knows.

"And why would I need them organized?" Andromache asks, a scoff lingering at the back of her throat. Sébastien rolls a chip of obsidian through his hands, which are pale in the mote of light Andromache has conjured. Sébastien stays quiet and just when Andromache thinks perhaps she has won, he meets her eyes.

"It is a great history to simply leave to molder in the corner. Stories are known about your siblings and your father. Why shouldn't the stories be known about you?" Sébastien asks. Andromache stares at him, taking in his shy eyes and the livid welt around his neck. She thinks about the silence of her throne room, about the circle she has created for her days.

"I am inevitable. Who doesn't know about me?" Andromache says, and Sébastien scoffs, eyes rolling. Andromache likes him for it, likes him for the irreverence that she doesn't get to see often from those outside of Lykon or Celeste.

"People know about your realm. But what do people know about you? Do you not worry about a legacy?"

"Spoken like a man who had a family."

"A family he abandoned to their own deaths," Sébastien says, looking down at his hands. Andromache watches the welts on his neck deepen, grow red and angry, turning to bruising before her eyes as though he was just cut down. She sees the blood in his eyes and she abruptly thinks of what Celeste would say.

"Death is inevitable. _I_ am inevitable, Sébastien," Andromache says, crouching to take his hands. They shake, tips purpling as he shakes his head back and forth. "Death is inevitable and often it is cruel, but it doesn't have to be. Death after a long illness is a kindness; after a long struggle, welcome."

"Jean-Pierre," Sébastien moans under his breath, eyes filling. He murmurs the names of his children and his wife, hitching sobs filling the room of scrolls. Around them, the scent of ink and paper fills her nose and Andromache thinks of the death of her mother. The death that set her and her siblings free to go after their father. To establish something new, the same something new that has led to Sébastien losing his family and his life.

"You will never rejoin them if you don't move on," Andromache says, knowing it isn't comforting and knowing that Celeste would grimace.

"I will never rejoin them if I do," Sébastien says, laughing humorlessly, sitting back, watching her. His fingertips have faded from purple back to the greyish-blue of a frozen body from when he first arrived in Andromache's realm.

"At least here, I can still see them. They see me. I can't leave, you see?" he asks, "I can't leave. Not while I can still see them and they can still see me."

Andromache's stomach drops; the ache of knowing that he should move on, that she should force the realization and send him on his way, wars with the need for companionship. She sits on the ground, holding onto his hands, wishing she had more warmth to offer him, even if it would do him no good.

"You don't have to decide now," Andromache says with finality, shifting to ease her arm around Sébastien's shoulders, holding him close.

"But--"

"No. I can allow some time," Andromache says, feeling Sébastien relax against her. Andromache murmurs to him, sighing softly when she looks around the room, the scrolls holding the history of her long life.

"Besides," Andromache says, shifting so she's holding Sébastien's hand gently, "I need an archivist, it seems."

Sébastien's laugh is rusty but welcome as Andromache stands, pulling Sébastien to his feet, leading him to the oldest scrolls in the room, watching his wounds fade with his excitement.

It's only to help him accept his fate, she tells herself, already knowing she's lying.

===

The banks of the Lethe are gentle, sloping swells of sand as if it just spilled from an hourglass. Quỳnh sits there, listening to the lap of water that doesn't truly have a current, allowing herself to drift between sleep and waking. She does not doze, not truly, though she knows it has been some time since she last slept. Her eyes burn but she can't stop watching the river around her.

The slap of water against something makes her sit up a little straighter, watching Lykon slowly pushing his boat through the water. The barge pole slips in and out of the water like the dolphins that Quỳnh used to watch as a child. The ripples from the boat and the barge pole are minimal, enough to move the surface from it's mirror-like appearance, but not enough to disturb the line on the shore.

Quỳnh readies herself to call out, wave to Lykon, despite her creeping exhaustion, when she sees the other person in the boat with him.

Sébastien. Leaned against the prow, eyes closed but face far from peaceful. In the low, blue-grey light, the mark on his neck seems like an angry shadow rather than the ugly reminder of how this man's life ended.

Quỳnh can hear Lykon murmuring, his voice soothing as he guides them around the rivers of the Underworld. Lykon meets Quỳnh's eyes, his own dark eyes gentle as he tilts his head in her direction. She smiles a little, waving at him and watching his face brighten with his smile. She pushes herself up from the sand, stepping carefully as they fade from sight.

The hall is quiet as she drifts through it, her chiton doing little to keep her warm. The loose fabric around her chest is a blessing on the warm days above but in the cool darkness of the Underworld, it seems less so. There is very little sound, here in the Underworld, she notices. After a life so used to people all around - first her siblings and then the women of the temple - silence seems to be the oddity. She passes empty rooms, as though they were waiting for something or someone.

There’s a fire burning, Quỳnh notices, stepping into the room where she had met Andromache. The fireplace is modest, simple bricks darkened with use from years beyond Quỳnh’s understanding. The woman who tends to the fire is Andromache herself, head bowed as she rearranges the logs there.

“You do not have to be so quiet,” Andromache says, amusement touching her voice, “I don’t exactly need to rest.”

The dark fabric around her arms is gathered at even spaces with small buttons that gleam in the firelight. Quỳnh is fascinated, her own bare arms a testament to their differences as she steps closer. Andromache watches her with a tilted head, a smile on her face as she lowers herself to the hearth.

“Death never sleeps, I suppose,” Quỳnh says, and Andromache huffs softly, stretching her legs out in front of her. They’re slender, firm with muscles and it is only the heat of the fire that dries Quỳnh’s mouth as she sits near Andromache.

“An interesting simplification,” Andromache says, looking over to Quỳnh. The pale skin of her arms shine in the light of the fire, warming Quỳnh even more. There’s a constellation of freckles on Andromache’s left arm, a trail of them that Quỳnh tries to look away from. Her long dark hair hangs over her right shoulder, a curtain of night to go with the dark fabric that surrounds Andromache.

“Then what is it instead?”

“For all that I am not Death, I am always around, never resting. But even a ruler of the Underworld needs a break,” Andromache says, eyes shadowing with the years that surely rest on her shoulders. Quỳnh resists the urge to reach out and touch this woman, to comfort her.

“And what happens when you need a break?” Quỳnh asks as Andromache tilts her head back. She is a study of black and white, grey smudges over her eyelids and Quỳnh thinks of dragging the kohl across Nile’s own lids.

“Worried that the Underworld will back up?” Andromache asks, cutting her eyes over. Quỳnh laughs softly, shaking her head as Andromache hums. Quỳnh watches Andromache draw her legs close, wrapping her arms around them in a hug. She makes herself small and shock steals Quỳnh’s breath for a moment at the vulnerability on display.

“You have Lykon. And Celeste,” Quỳnh tests, watching Andromache’s face lighten, beating back the shadows that seem to cling to the woman’s being. Andromache nods, breath gusting out of her.

“I have them. And I still can’t bear to let Sébastien go. I’ve become accustomed to him. And he isn’t in any hurry to move on.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks that moving on will take him away from his family. That he will not rejoin them. The truth is, Quỳnh, I am a guide. But I cannot guide someone who does not wish to see. Sébastien does not wish to move on, to get closer to a life that brings him to his family, and I would miss him.”

“So because you would miss him, you let him linger in this half state?” Quỳnh asks, anger in her voice. Andromache sits up, propping her elbows on her knees to watch Quỳnh. Quỳnh feels caught beneath her gaze, her life spooling out behind her like the threads of fate that Celeste weaves even now.

“Make no mistake,” Andromache says, voice gentle despite the angry glint in her eyes, “I cannot make a spirit do something against their will. I cannot make Sébastien move on anymore than I can make you abandon your curiosity. You think I let him linger because I would miss him? His lingering is of his own making and not even I can change that.”

“Can you not make him see?”

“Make him see what, Quỳnh? He knows he is dead. He knows that he hung from a rope until the spark of life in him was extinguished. He knows that more surely than he knows anything else. I cannot make a spirit move on before they are ready. I would not destroy the order of things like that,” Andromache says, back straight as she watches Quỳnh. Quỳnh thinks of the falcons that Nile trains, their keen eyes taking in every muscle twitch for their cue.

Quỳnh moves to touch her, a moment of daring she wouldn’t allow herself but for the firelight behind them and the anguish on Andromache’s face. Andromache pulls away, standing as she clears her throat. Quỳnh stands, reaching out again as Andromache flinches.

“Sébastien cannot move on until he decides to do so. And you are here as a guest, so allow me to make you comfortable,” Andromache says, voice tight. Behind them, where nothing was before, is a bed, much like Quỳnh’s own at the temple. The blankets over the mat seem softer, gleaming like they were fresh from the loom.

“I do not need to rest, but you do. You are mortal and I am not,” Andromache says, looking away from Quỳnh before she gently urges the bed closer to the fire. Quỳnh takes a deep shuddering breath, gathering herself to rest her hand on Andromache’s arm. Andromache’s skin is cooler than Quỳnh’s own, the difference shocking at first. Andromache stares at Quỳnh, her eyes flicking between Quỳnh’s face and Quỳnh’s hand; Quỳnh is dimly aware of Andromache’s skin warming under her touch, sharing Quỳnh’s own warmth.

Her stomach thrills at the thought, a flush creeping over Quỳnh’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I misspoke,” Quỳnh says, haltingly. Apologies are not her practice, words being Nile’s realm more than Quỳnh’s own. But she knows, deep in her being, that if she leaves this apology for another day, it will spell disaster for her stay here. “I have only had a glimpse of your responsibility. I’m sorry, Andromache.”

Andromache stares at Quỳnh’s hand, her eyes wide and lips parted and Quỳnh does not know her, not really, but she thinks of what plush lips under her own would feel like. Andromache reaches over, gently taking Quỳnh’s hand in her own as she leads Quỳnh to the bed.

“Rest easy. I do not bear grudges over misspeaking,” Andromache says as Quỳnh lays down. Andromache crouches, the dark skirt of her chiton brushing the floor as she brings the blankets over Quỳnh’s shoulders. “I would have to hold a grudge against myself, were that the case.”

The easy amusement returns to her face and Quỳnh can’t help herself, she squeezes Andromache’s hand, drawn to this woman she has dreamed of for so long. She rests her cheek on Andromache’s cool hand, looking up at Andromache. It seems that the moment stretches forever, each daring not to breathe before Andromache allows her index finger to swipe over Quỳnh’s cheek.

“Rest easy,” Andromache says again, voice strained as she rises and walks out, clenching and unclenching her hand. Quỳnh breathes in hard, fancying she can still smell the oils that Andromache anoints herself in, wishing the chill of Andromache’s hand would linger on her own warmer one.

Quỳnh drifts to sleep, the crackle of the fire like so many nights before at the temple, wondering about the woman of her dreams. She thinks of Andromache’s fragile expression at Quỳnh’s touch, the parting of her lips that Quỳnh can’t get out of her mind.

She sleeps, resting easy, without dreams.

===

Quỳnh finds Sébastien most days, walking with him or working with him on the myriad scrolls that lie around. They talk about life and change and Quỳnh finds herself telling him of her jealousy towards her family.

“It isn’t that I want them to be unhappy,” Quỳnh says, spinning a piece of obsidian on the table, focused on it. Sébastien makes a soft noise, encouraging her to continue. “My sisters are all married and are peaceful. The women I share my life with at the temple have found peace. And I am jealous of that peace.”

“They say that jealousy comes from fear,” Sébastien says, looking up. The golden light of the hanging lanterns makes his hair shine in the light, chasing silver shadows away. His face is kind despite the horror of the marks from his death. She watches the purple on his fingers recede for only a moment. “Quỳnh, fear is a horrible place to lead your life from.”

“I think it is doubt, more often than not,” Quỳnh says as Sébastien sighs quietly. He looks into the distance, lost in his thoughts, the marks on his neck deepening as if he were just cut down.

“Doubt and fear, it comes from the same place. I was a bookseller, you know. But I was worried that I would not be able to provide for my wife and our sons. So I began to forge papers.”

Sébastien picks up a quill, trimming it quickly before he dips it into ink. “I’ve always had a talent for memory. I always said I was a mimic, rather than a true artist.”

He changes his hand-writing half a dozen times, matching the writings of the scrolls that he and Quỳnh have been poring over. She sits, quietly, letting him find his words.

“I began to forge more than papers, you understand. It got me into trouble and my choice was jail or military,” Sébastien says, laying the quill down. Quỳnh shifts, questions lingering as he nods to her, an understanding expression on his face.

“Why did you pick the military?”

“To go to jail would have shamed my wife and our children. To join the military, even under those circumstances still allowed us to retain some social standing. And the military would allow us to send money home. To me, it was the only choice,” Sébastien says, shifting himself to standing. Quỳnh lets him pull her up as they walk slowly out of the room of scrolls and down the halls.

Speaking of his family seems to lead him straight there.

“What happened?” Quỳnh asks as Sébastien greets Lykon with a murmur, the three of them settling in the boat. Quỳnh watches Lykon’s gentle hands brush over Sébastien’s uniformed shoulder, comforting as Sébastien takes a deep breath.

“We were sent on a winter route in summer clothes. We were sent on a fool’s errand with little to no preparations and we found out, halfway through, that money was not being sent home. I thought of my family, of my wife - Émilie - and our three boys, hoping for help and none coming. So I became a deserter for which I was hanged.”

“Oh, Sébastien,” Quỳnh murmurs, reaching out for his hand. She ignores the purpled fingers and the cold skin, concentrating instead on offering comfort. Sébastien holds her hand gently, as though he could break it.

“When I found myself before Andromache, I begged for news of my family. I found out that they had sacrificed themselves for our neighbors. They starved, hoping that the money would come soon enough. Jean-Pierre, my youngest, went last, caring for his brothers and their mother. So I stay here, lingering, hoping that I can care for them here when I couldn’t in life.”

“But if you don’t move on, you can’t rejoin them,” Quỳnh says. Lykon looks at her, a soft, sad smile on his face as he pushes the boat into the sand.

“If I move on, there is no guarantee that I will rejoin them. And I would rather have them in glimpses of peace than to never see them at all,” Sébastien says, clasping her hand in both of his cold ones, a sad smile on his face. He steps out of the boat, leaving Quỳnh with Lykon, the silence punctuated by the slap of water on Lykon’s boat.

“Why won’t he see what he needs to do?” Quỳnh asks Lykon. Her voice is quiet as Lykon leans on his barge pole, sighing softly.

"Death is not always a death, you understand," Lykon says, looking over to Quỳnh. Quỳnh looks over to him, curious.

"A death of an idea is not a death, but perhaps a change when given new information. Sometimes a soul is ready to rest. Sometimes," Lykon says, looking towards where Booker gazes on his family, "a soul cannot move on until they accept this change."

"But how do you know if it's a final death? Do you just accept it? Does Andromache decide that?" Quỳnh asks, leaning against the back of the boat as Lykon hums softly, anchoring them in place, waiting for Booker to return from his daily vigil.

"A little of everything. Souls spend time in the different realms, you know," Lykon says as Quỳnh nods, "Some souls need more time at peace before they are ready to go back. The kinder, gentler souls want to help; they want to return."

Lykon pauses here, looking to the fork in the river that Quỳnh knows goes to Kokytos; suffering and wailing reaching them even here near the Elysian Fields. A chill sweeps through her that has nothing to do with the weather.

"And there are those who will never leave Kokytos. They will never repent for the suffering they caused and thus, they will doom themselves."

"And Sébastien?"

"It's a complicated situation. He found his way to Andromache, different from you, but he found his way there. She has been lonely for a long time, Quỳnh," Lykon says as Sébastien pushes himself up, looking back to them. His eyes are red, face wet from tears and Quỳnh swallows hard.

"That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to move on," Quỳnh says finally, after moments of silence and Sébastien taking the first steps back to Lykon and Quỳnh. Lykon looks to her, a slow smile beaming across his face.

"No, it doesn't," Lykon says, something like pride on his face.

===

Quỳnh loses track of the days, loses track of the passage of time faster than she anticipated. There’s no discernible difference between night and day in the Underworld. She rests when her eyes burn and spends time trying to learn everything there is to know about the Underworld and Andromache.

Andromache, she learns, has a sweet tooth. She visits the altars left for her, beaming when a pot of honey appears on a rare occasion. Quỳnh watches her laugh, eating chunks of raw honeycomb, sighing happily. Quỳnh watches her interact with Sébastien, looking past the markers of his death, seeing only the vibrant man he must have been in his life.

Quỳnh learns more about her, about the death of Andromache’s mother that was the catalyst for her life.

“I miss my mother,” Quỳnh finds herself saying, sitting in the throne room. Andromache looks to her, crown resting on the table nearby as she passes a brush through her long hair. Quỳnh’s fingers itch to take the brush and do it instead.

“I have missed my mother for many years. It isn’t a pain you forget,” Anrdromache says gently. Quỳnh nods slowly, watching the pass of the brush. It feels meditative, in the way that Fatima leads their morning meditations from the garden. Andromache hums softly, looking over to Quỳnh.

“Pain reminds you that you are alive. Maybe it reminds me I still am,” Andromache says, placing the brush down on the table. She places the crown back on her head, the weight and gravity of her role settling over her shoulders. The chains of her crown gleam against Andromache’s hair, glinting on the smooth plane of her collarbones. Quỳnh thinks of the dreams she has had, the lives she has seen and she wonders what it would be like to taste the woman before her.

“My mother,” Quỳnh says, a smile crossing her face as she remembers, “used to clean our faces like they had offended her. As if we went about our day with dirt on our faces just to upset her.” Quỳnh laughs at the thought, watching Andromache’s face lighten, her laugh soft and hesitant, like she’s not sure she’s allowed.

“I don’t remember my mother. I have little hints of her,” Andromache says, holding her thumb and index fingers close, to demonstrate, “but I can’t remember her voice. I don’t remember what she looked like anymore. I remember that I was the youngest when our father imprisoned her and the next time I saw her, she had already passed on.”

“You rule the Underworld. Can’t you just find her?” Quỳnh asks, leaning closer. Andromache laughs softly, smiling over at her with tears glittering in her eyes. It makes Quỳnh want to gather her close, to press a kiss to her furrowed brow. Andromache picks up the brush and sighs softly.

“The thing about the Underworld - my Underworld - is that even I don’t understand it. I’m sure my mother is somewhere here but there are so many realms.”

“I have dreamed of you my whole life,” Quỳnh says, “I have traveled across my world to end up at a place that put me closer to you. And now I sit. In the Underworld, before my own time has come, and I converse with it’s ruler. If I can have faith that I will find the woman I dreamed of, then perhaps you could have some faith that your mother is here, waiting for you.”

Andromache stares at her, the silence between them changing from companionable to tense as Quỳnh wonders how hard she will have to backpedal. She can imagine Nile’s grimace as she trips over her words. Nile who has such an easy time with communicating.

“You are very kind, Quỳnh,” Andromache says gently, standing and clasping her hand to Quỳnh’s shoulder. The scent of honey and the almond oil that Andromache brushed through her hair lingers around her for the rest of the day.

A reminder of a ruler who let herself be vulnerable.

===

For all that Quỳnh offers a respite from a long-held routine, Andromache finds that she still can’t find any of the old joy in her rule. Once, she would have enjoyed sending souls to their resting places, knowing that her job has been vital to the rebirth of the souls above. Once, she had been grateful for the realm she was given, so many lifetimes ago. She takes Lykon’s words at their value, letting her friends help her make the decisions.

Andromache is on the outside, watching reunions and justice being served. At times, she watches Sébastien gaze upon his family, wishing he was with them. The marks on his neck fade more than before and Andromache wonders if it’s due to Quỳnh’s presence. Already, the Realm seems lighter, feels welcoming and like the final rest it is supposed to be.

Rest has never come easy for Andromache.

Andromache struggles to remind herself where she is. Swathes of time pass her by, as she tries to remember her mother, her sisters. She doesn’t think of her brothers, their sneers as she took over the Underworld. Instead, she remembers the soft voices of her childhood, the voices of her mother and sisters melding into one murmur.

There is a woman in front of her, great tears streaming down her face. Her hair is shorter on one side than the other, elaborate designs tattooed on her exposed scalp; designs that Andromache has seen Quỳnh draw. Andromache takes a deep breath, thinking of the battles that still rage above them, that still fill her halls and will continue to fill her halls.

“Where do I go?” the woman asks, voice breaking. Her skin is pale white, her hair the same shade, so different from Quỳnh’s tan skin and black hair. Andromache doesn’t respond for a moment. She is lost in thought of Quỳnh’s calloused hands, telling Andromache the story of how hard Quỳnh has worked in her temple. She doesn’t think of her duty, of the woman before her, blocking it out as though it were already a bad memory until the woman stifles a sob.

“Wherever you think is best, I suppose,” Andromache says, blinking slowly, recentering herself in her throne. The chains on her crown are cold, she’s always cold, it seems. Andromache’s eyes trace the whorls of black ink on smooth skin. Andromache thinks of the symbols her own mother taught her, the last clear memory that Andromache has of her.

“I just want to return to my temple. Please, mighty Andromache. I would return to the temple and devote a new altar to you. Please. That temple is the only place I have known happiness. Please,” the woman says, shuffling closer, sobs shaking her shoulders as Andromache takes a deep breath out of her own memories. At the doorway, Lykon waits, bracing himself on the barge pole.

“That isn’t possible for now. Go, rest. You will choose later,” Andromache says, gently urging her to Lykon’s waiting arms. The careworn set to his face ages him, impossibly so, even as his usual smile breaks through as Andromache sags back into her throne. Apathy is harder now, now that there is someone who holds her attention. Now that her friends hold her to new promises.

There’s a shuffle from the door that Andromache looks up at seeing Quỳnh. Her heart thuds painfully, an aching yearn urging her to go to Quỳnh’s side.

“Andromache,” Quỳnh says, pain writ over her face. She stands at the doorway, caught between Lykon and Andromache, eyes flicking between the woman following Lykon and Andromache herself.

“Did you need something, Quỳnh?” Andromache asks, gathering herself to look at the woman who has been so distracting and captivating since her arrival. Andromache wonders at the angle of her jaw, what it would be like to touch and to kiss the slope of her shoulder. She wonders what it would be like to take a mortal to her bed again. To take _this_ mortal to her bed.

“She begged you. Zara. She begged you and you didn’t even listen,” Quỳnh says, stepping closer, confusion replacing pain. “I know you care. You have shown me how much you care. So why did you ignore her?”

“Souls do not go straight back above. Not without a rest,” Andromache says. She steps out of the throne, reaching for Quỳnh who pulls away. Andromache flexes her hand, like she’s held her hand too close to the flames. Quỳnh tracks the movement and takes a slow breath.

“But you are the ruler here. You could bend the rules.”

“And what then? I bend the rules for everyone? Because they ask me nicely?”

“She didn’t ask you nicely. She _begged_ , Andromache. Zara has never begged a moment in her life. She was born at our temple. It’s the only life she knows,” Quỳnh says. Andromache wants to reach for her, anxiety freezing her in place.

“Knew,” Andromache says, closing her eyes as Quỳnh inhales sharply. “I do not break my rules often, if at all, Quỳnh. The Underworld must have rules.”

“And I suppose that’s why Sébastien is still lingering between realms,” Quỳnh says. Andromache gasps, as though she has dipped below the water and broken the surface only when her lungs burn.

“Your friend. Zara,” Andromache says, desperately trying to find words to fix this, to find the easy rapport between them only days ago. “Zara cannot be reborn yet. There is another role for her. I don’t make these decisions lightly, Quỳnh.”

“It certainly seems like it,” Quỳnh says, spinning on her heels, striding away from Andromache.

Andromache puts her head into her hands, sinking onto the floor against her throne until she hears footsteps. The solid weight of Sébastien is comforting, even amidst her guilt. He slips an arm around her shoulders, holding her until she’s ready to talk.

Apathy and anger war inside her, breaking her free of this silence, as though they were chains, holding her down. She takes a deep breath, the cool air bracing on her face as she looks to Sébastien.

“The first realization that the mighty Andromache cannot do as she wishes is a hard one,” Sébastien offers. His eyes are as close to what they must have been when he was alive as Andromache has ever seen them. Haunted, but clear, she smiles at him sadly. The welt around his neck is a fine line of bruising and Andromache steels herself at the thought that soon, Sébastien will move on and Quỳnh will be above.

“I am as beholden to the threads of fate as anyone. I am simply a guide,” Andromache says, tilting her head back to rest on his arm. She takes in the crenellations on the ceiling, the spikes that should feel limiting but instead allow her to feel as if this place is hers and hers alone.

“You will tell her when she returns,” Sébastien says, confident and gentle as Andromache allows herself to slump against him, taking the comfort for what it is.

===

Quỳnh smells the herbs before she sees their smoke, the offerings that Celeste puts out, guiding souls home and, it seems, Quỳnh to her doorstep. The loom in the center of the room is covered, hiding the threads of fate from view. Celeste smiles when she sees Quỳnh, a woven basket draped over her arm that Quỳnh herself had crafted on the steps of a temple that had been home for so much of her adult life.

“I didn’t think she could be kind."

“After she let someone who was neither dead nor dying stay? You still thought she was unkind?” Celeste asks, surprise and hurt echoing through the open room around them. Quỳnh unconsciously straightens her back, mouth falling open for a moment as she tries to think of a justification. Celeste looks at Quỳnh, caution on her face as though she is waiting for Quỳnh to say a final hurtful thing.

"Death has always seemed so harsh."

"And so you thought Andromache herself was harsh?" Celeste asks, eyes going flinty and Quỳnh feels a chill run through her for a moment. She can see the age around her, all over her, the eons she has been guarding Andromache's realm and her heart.

"One of the acolytes from a temple - my temple - passed by her and she barely glanced at them as they went to their rest. She is supposed to be a guide for this realm. Instead she is indifferent, and I don't know if that's worse," Quỳnh says as Celeste carefully places the basket, still heavy with offerings, at her feet. Celeste's hair varies between so short and so long that it becomes a blur and Quỳnh gives up trying to track the change.

Celeste's voice, when she speaks, is tightly controlled.

"And thus, Andromache deserves your condemnation?"

"Did she care? Before, I mean," Quỳnh asks. Celeste looks at her, incredulous.

"Have you truly understood nothing in your time here? Do you think all the other gods of their realms spend so much time entrenched in making theirs run so smoothly? That Apollo in the sky cares whether his light is blistering or comforting? Do you think that Poisedon considers the height of his waves when your fleets sail away?" Celeste says, voice quiet but no less intense for it. She leans forward, voice nearly a hiss as Quỳnh fights against the urge to lean back.

"You have heard from Andromache's own mouth as to how much she cares. You have seen it in her actions with those who have passed and those who sit in her halls even now. She deserves more than your casual surprise at her kindness when you sit and benefit from said kindness," Celeste says. She turns away from Quỳnh, face blurring with how quickly she changes through the faces of Fate. Celeste reaches into the basket that Quỳnh had given her, feeding some of the oak boughs to the fire before her.

It takes Celeste a long moment to turn back to Quỳnh, face settling into the one Quỳnh had first met.

"I'm sorry," Quỳnh says softly. Celeste stands in anticipatory silence, using a small knife to trim a cone of incense, the fragrant oils coming to life in the fire. Quỳnh doesn't compare herself to the incense or the fire, but she can't help but think of Andromache. She thinks of Andromache's quick smile, the gentle touch of her hand on Quỳnh's. The freely offered space to rest, though Andromache herself doesn't need it. All the parts of Andromache's soul that she has offered to Quỳnh.

"We hear stories of the gloom and the unending sorrow of the Underworld. I have heard them my whole life. But I have felt nothing but welcome since I arrived," Quỳnh says, slowly lowering herself to sit across from Celeste. Celeste watches her, standing above the smoke and Quỳnh sees the wrinkles of age on her face, the far-seeing expression that she usually sees on Nile's face.

"If that is all you hear, it is all you will see. Change that and you will see a new side," Celeste says. Her voice is a low drone, like an intonation and Quỳnh feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The incense makes Quỳnh's eyes heavy until Celeste sits down across from her.

"Understand this," Celeste says, eyes clearing, "It is not for anyone, save myself, to understand the strands of fate below that cover. And Andromache's life has been sorrowful since she was young. It would make some unkind. It has made her understand pain. It makes her an effective guide. It makes her a good friend."

"It doesn't mean she should have had to go through that pain. Kindness is a choice," Quỳnh says as Celeste's lips quirk gently. Quỳnh feels as if she's passed a test in some way, Celeste's hand overly warm as she squeezes Quỳnh's forearm.

"And so you too will have a choice. But for now, tell me what else you have learned since your arrival," Celeste says.

===

The Underworld is larger and smaller than Quỳnh would have thought, all at the same time. It seems like a trick of the light, but Quỳnh walks through the halls and wonders at the silence of them.

Light, toned in blues and greys like the morning sky before the rising sun, shines across the glittering halls. The glass - the obsidian, she reminds herself - is sharp at points and smooth at others. She can see her reflection in places; the fall of her hair and the twist of her chiton, colors muted in the black of the walls.

She walks past doorway after doorway, peering in when she can. She sees all manners of dress, some armor draped over a table, as if someone is going to repair it. As if someone was called away before they could finish. Quỳnh keeps walking, sandals whispering against the ground as she steps into a wide room.

The stone in here is rougher, as though it's been formed by hand, rather than by nature itself. The walls and floors are colder than the previous halls, but something about it feels comfortable. Quỳnh looks around, gasping at the weaponry that lays around; discarded, dented armor, and other broken weapons.

Against the wall, placed with care, is a row of double-headed axes. Some look brand new, others look older than the halls around Quỳnh. She crouches, taking in the ancient carvings and bright, new metal, gleaming in the ever-present candlelight.

"It's called a labrys," Quỳnh hears just before her fingers graze the wooden handle of one, blackened with pitch. She looks over her shoulder, finding Andromache. Andromache glides in, a cool chill following her as she reaches down, curling her fingers around the labrys that Quỳnh had been considering.

"This was the first one I forged. I was watched over by many and upon my first completed weapon, I was celebrated," Andromache says, eyes distant, a slight smile curving her lips as the chain hanging from her crown brushes her high cheekbones. Quỳnh breathes slowly, not wanting to disturb her, suddenly aware of just how old Andromache is.

"Was that when you were given rule of the Underworld?"

"Oh, no," Andromache says, hands deftly twisting the labrys in a few experimental arcs, "that was given to me after my brothers and I destroyed my father and his ilk."

Shock stops Quỳnh's gentle fidgeting as Andromache steps through a few practice swings. Andromache's eyes brighten, mischief sparking.

"Don't worry, my smiting days are over."

It startles a laugh out of Quỳnh, a breathless little thing and Andromache laughs at her reaction. Andromache's laugh should be terrifying. It should have the weight of her years in it, the terror of millions of souls. Instead, she sounds pleased to have made Quỳnh laugh.

"What is it like?" Quỳnh asks, lowering herself to sit on the bench nearby. There's a helmet beside her, golden crest beaten and nicked, all the signs of being well-loved in battle. She looks back to Andromache who has sat across from her. The labrys is across her lap and she's found a whetstone from somewhere.

"What is what like?" Andromache asks patiently, given Quỳnh the impression that she has answered this same question many times.

"Being the ruler of this realm."

"Have you ever walked for longer than you thought possible? For so long that you forget where you are going, but you keep moving because your mind tells you to? The way that your feet and legs cease to ache, they simply are. The way that your mind wipes clear of everything but the end," Andromache asks, and Quỳnh nods slowly, thinking of her pilgrimage from her childhood home to the temple. She thinks of the two days she slept, only rising to relieve herself and to eat.

"It is that, but while surrounded by grief that does not and will not belong to you."

Andromache stands, blade of her labrys gleaming as she places the whetstone down with a quiet 'clink'.

“I’m sorry for,” Quỳnh pauses, “for assuming that these are easy decisions for you.”

Quỳnh clears her throat, reaching for Andromache’s arm, her fingers brushing cool skin. Andromache looks at her, something bright - hope, Quỳnh thinks - in her eyes as Quỳnh continues, “I’m sorry, Andromache.”

"Thank you, Quỳnh," Andromache says softly, slipping out of the room and all Quỳnh can think about is the gulf of sorrow and the glint of hope in Andromache's eyes.

Quỳnh walks in silence, the impersonal walls of obsidian surrounding her and making her breath come faster. She thinks of Fatima, unable to bear the press of bodies or walls, preferring to work and sleep in the temple gardens. Heart pounding, surely an anomaly here, leads her to the river where Lykon and Sébastien watch her, surprised.

"Are you well, Quỳnh?" Sébastien asks, concern writ on his face as she sits in the sand heavily.

"How do you live this way?" Quỳnh asks Lykon, watching his normally cheerful face fall slightly. Sébastien steps out of the boat, approaching Quỳnh carefully.

"How do you live, knowing the souls of the world are all around you? That the woman you call your friend is responsible for them? Is it not overwhelming, like diving into deep water?" Quỳnh asks, desperation causing her breath to stutter. Sébastien picks up her hand and she wonders at the feeling of him against her, real as if she were back at her temple.

"We," Sébastien says delicately, "do not have to live with it. This is where we are at this time. You have to find your peace with it for as long as you stay with us."

"Comforting," Quỳnh says, a shaky laugh slipping out of her. Lykon steps out of the boat, coming to sit with Quỳnh, taking her other hand.

"It is what our reality is, Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh. It is the reality that you chose to come to. Andromache is the guardian of this realm, She guides the souls under her care, not because she wants to, but because the other options were people who did not care. And caring that much is hard on the caretaker," Lykon says.

"She has been alone for so long," Quỳnh says finally as Sébastien gently eases his arm around her shoulders. Lykon breathes in slowly and Quỳnh wonders if he truly needs to breathe or if it is simply an affectation.

"Let me tell you about my friend, Andromache," Lykon says softly, smiling at Sébastien and Quỳnh.

===

The battle that rages is bloody, full of suffering. Full of death to fill the realms that Andromache watches over.

She's so tired.

"You don't have to watch," Celeste says as Andromache stands in the doorway, one of many that Celeste watches. Her hair shifts between times, longer than Andromache's own and then shorter, sides shaved like the acolytes that Andromache once had.

"It should not be just you."

"I have never minded watching the threads of fate go through a loom," Celeste says, offering a hand without looking. Andromache takes it, stepping to stand at her side. "You never cared for textiles."

"Is that what this is?" Andromache asks wryly.

"It's a comparison, Andromache," Celeste says, looking over to her with humor in her ever-changing eyes. Andromache sighs, looking over the bloodied field, remembering long hair bound in braids, whipping through sweat and blood like a flag. She remembers the heft of her labrys in her hands, cutting down the creatures her father had raised.

She remembers taking her father's head, blood soaking her face like a blessing.

Celeste squeezes her hand, bringing her back to herself and away from her memories.

The battle has calmed and Andromache breathes in slowly, smelling the herbs that Celeste burns as a compass to lead the souls to Lykon. Andromache walks out over the field, watching the men (the invaders) dying. The shock on their faces as she kneels before them, watching their souls flee dispassionately.

She has been doing this for too long to be moved by their deaths.

===

Sébastien and Andromache often walk together, Quỳnh notices. They talk of anything and everything, his hands motioning to illustrate his story. Andromache watches him, the same way she watches everyone, but with Sébastien, she seems softer.

Quỳnh once would have been surprised by this softness on display; now, however, it seems far more rare to see Andromache being cruel.

They sit together on the steps that lead to Andromache’s throne, stretched out and at ease with each other after a long friendship. It reminds Quỳnh of how she and Nile are together.

Andromache’s crown lays in the seat of the throne, discarded like the responsibilities she’s taking a break from for a moment. Sébastien sees Quỳnh and waves her over, allowing her into this softer version of Andromache that Quỳnh knows to look for now.

“You look well,” Sébastien says as Quỳnh lowers herself to the other side of Andromache. Andromache smiles at her, eyes bright under the motes of light that seem to follow her conjuring.

“You as well,” Quỳnh responds, surprising herself to find that it’s true. The marks from his hanging seem less pronounced, the livid mark on his neck faded to a light blush. His eyes are clear and his fingers have only the slightest cast to them. She thinks to the conversations they’ve had, during her time in the Underworld, about responsibility and about their regrets. She thinks about his quiet reckoning with himself as the marks of his death fade more and more.

“Andromache and I have been discussing our lives and the mistakes we’ve made.”

“Oh, so just a light chat,” Quỳnh says dryly, making Andromache laugh. Her face lights up with it, the conjured motes brightening the throne room.

“Surely you have mistakes that are funny rather than tragic, yes?” Sébastien asks. Andromache leans back, propping her elbows on the next stair up, smiling at Quỳnh. Her collarbones and shoulders are flat planes that Quỳnh longs to trace and her hair hangs behind her like a curtain.

“Tell us one and I’ll tell you about the time I knocked out my brother. On accident, that time,” Andromache says, a smirk playing about her lips. Quỳnh laughs, tilting her head to them. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, watching Andromache’s eyes track the movement. When Andromache meets her eyes, Quỳnh has the pleasure of seeing a flush ghost itself over Andromache’s cheeks.

“I was banned from making my favorite dessert because I not only used too much ginger, but I mixed up the salt and sugar,” Quỳnh says as Andromache snorts. Quỳnh grins at her, knocking their elbows together as Sébastien grins at them.

“Too much ginger? No such thing,” Andromache says, teasing, “Though the salt instead of sugar is definitely a punishable offense.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re going to punish me for a simple mistake?” Quỳnh teases as Sébastien coughs out a laugh. Andromache grins at her, eyes flitting to Quỳnh’s lips and Quỳnh feels a familiar heat in her gut that draws her closer and closer to Andromache.

“I suppose it depends on the severity of the crime,” muses Andromache as Quỳnh laughs. She leans into Andromache’s arm, giggling to herself as Andromache snickers more. Sébastien has slipped out while they’ve laughed, his fond smile welcome even as he leaves. Quỳnh knows he goes to watch over his family and she says as much to Andromache.

Andromache hums softly, looking out after him. “He’s getting better, you know. The marks are less and he watches his family with less sadness.”

“Does a sad life mean a sad afterlife?” Quỳnh asks as Andromache tilts her head. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she pushes it back.

“That may be more of a question for Celeste than myself. But I do not think so. Sébastien’s sadness is from a deeper part of himself. Being unable to move on is far different from eternal punishment.”

“Is this Sébastien punishing himself?” Quỳnh asks. Andromache leans forward, making herself small in the way that Quỳnh has come to learn means she feels insecure. Her hair falls over her shoulder and she pushes at it ineffectually.

“I think he punishes himself as much as I let him. He has to make a choice but I haven’t helped him come to that. Do you think some of this rests on me?” Andromache asks, voice softer than Quỳnh has heard it before. Quỳnh watches her push at her long hair before Quỳnh reaches out to gather the fall of hair.

“I think that if I gave you permission to take all the faults onto yourself, you would. And that’s my fault for blaming you when I first arrived. I think you both needed the other and he can’t move on until he feels he isn’t leaving someone behind somehow,” Quỳnh says, hands moving in gentle movement to wind Andromache’s silver-shot brown hair into a simple braid. It pulls the lines of her face into sharper relief, the high cheekbones and proud brow making Quỳnh ache to pull her close.

“Let’s agree that we’re both awful and call it good,” Andromache says, wryly. Quỳnh laughs, hands lingering on Andromache’s hair even as Andromache reaches over and pushes Quỳnh’s hair out of her face.

“I think everyone deserves chances and maybe Sébastien hasn’t felt like taking one,” Quỳnh says finally. Andromache’s fingers are light on her jaw and Quỳnh allows herself to lean into it, eyes slipping closed.

“And what about you and taking a chance?”

“Celeste told me I would need to decide. So I guess the answer is I don’t know yet,” Quỳnh says, feeling Andromache pull away with a soft, hesitant smile.

“Come, let me show you some more of the weapons you were asking about before,” Andromache says, standing. Her crown stays on the seat of the throne and Quỳnh doesn’t think about the ache in her chest at remembering Andromache’s touch.

===

“You gave Yusuf and Nicolò a chance. I did not expect that of you,” Lykon says, smiling to Andromache. She shrugs, looking down to where two figures walk away, one holding a harp and singing, and the other following closely.

“Is Celeste angry?”

“Annoyed, yes. Angry? No. This is a good thing, my friend.”

“Do you think they’ll make it?” Andromache asks, turning to face him. Lykon, smiles, softer this time, and pulls her to his side. They stand like that, watching the very caverns around Yusuf lighten with his song and his gift, while he is unaware of the changes he affects even now.

“I think _you_ think they’ll make it. Which is why you did this; it gives you hope,” Lykon says as Andromache makes a rude noise in the back of her throat. Lykon laughs, helping her into the boat.

“Come, let’s follow and see.”

===

The cliff is far easier to access than Yusuf had found it, Quỳnh thinks. Andromache stands beside her, watching the reunion before them. The two men, bodies healing and holding each other make Andromache's entire being seem lighter.

"You were very kind to Yusuf. To let him lead Nicolò out was beautiful," Quỳnh says, sitting on the cliff edge with Andromache. Andromache laughs softly, pale skin shining in the shaft of sunlight from above. Quỳnh can hear the ocean and Yusuf and Nicolò's conversation. Andromache smiles gently, almost secretively.

"Their love is beautiful," Andromache says wistfully. She smiles over at Quỳnh and Quỳnh has to look away, a tremble taking root in Quỳnh's chest.

"A guide should be kind and understanding," Andromache says with a cadence that sounds like she's repeating someone. Quỳnh watches her push the long fall of brown hair over one shoulder. The pale skin of her back seems to glow and Quỳnh wonders what it would be like to touch it.

"Who told you that?"

"My sister. She used to guide the hunts, making sure nothing was over-hunted. I have not felt her presence for many years. Perhaps we've all been derelict in our duties," Andromache says, musing. She looks over to Quỳnh, hawk-sharp eyes taking her in and Quỳnh meets her gaze.

"Maybe you forgot to find the joy," Quỳnh offers gently. Andromache laughs, the sound sad and it makes Quỳnh want to gather Andromache close.

"I have not felt joy for many years. Maybe I forgot how."

"Bullshit," Quỳnh blurts out as Andromache's eyes widen. A nervous little snicker slips out of Andromache as Quỳnh clears her throat.

"I only meant that when you let these low feelings speak for you, it's inauthentic."

"I believe you said 'bullshit'," Andromache says, a grin playing over her face. Quỳnh hides her face in her hands, embarrassed as Andromache laughs. A shuffle of fabric heralds the gentle hand that rests on Quỳnh's arm.

"It probably is. I have been told I take myself far too seriously," Andromache says as Quỳnh looks up. Her hand is cool and gentle on Quỳnh's arm, resting there lightly, as Quỳnh sighs softly.

"When you say you are a guide, how is that different from being a ruler?" Quỳnh asks as Andromache blinks rapidly. She hums thoughtfully, leaning back against the rockface's bulk, tilting her head into the sunshine. It's the closest to sunshine Quỳnh has been since she descended into the Underworld with her bargain.

"It's exactly how it sounds. My job isn't to _tell_ the souls where to go, but to guide them to a resting place. Sometimes they are on a path to rebirth and some, like your friend Zara, have other responsibilities," Andromache says, twisting the buttons over her arms to let the fabric fall around them, baring the pale flesh to the warm sun.

"Who decides those responsibilities?"

"Those are determined far before a soul appears in your world. It isn't time for Zara to be reborn," Andromache says, sifting pale sand through her hand, the sparkling grains shining on her skin. Quỳnh looks behind them, watching the Underworld below, the shadows from where light spills over the dark sands.

"Quỳnh," Andromache says, leaning forward, sunlight gleaming on her brown hair and strands of silver, "it would not have been a kindness for Zara to be reborn to an old life. What would she have learned? Imagine how hard it would be to go back to all those you know but as a child. One day, it will be the right time for Zara to return, but you can't go back."

"Is that why Sébastien refuses to move on?" Quỳnh asks as Andromache sighs. Quỳnh tilts her head into the sun, closing her eyes while Andromache gathers herself.

"There are many paths to take, you understand," Andromache says as Quỳnh shifts, opening her eyes to look over. Andromache looks off in the distance, Lykon's bright laugh echoing across the rivers he sails.

"Very few people leave a mortal life and go directly to the Elysian fields of peace. Sébastien's family are some of those few. They went hungry so their neighbors could eat. They knew it was likely that Sébastien would not return and they still put others ahead of themselves," Andromache says. Below, with Lykon, is Sébastien, the rare sound of his laughter echoing.

"And Sébastien?"

"Sébastien has many things to atone for from his mortal life. Some that follow him even here and others that may never leave him. I cannot make a choice for someone, Quỳnh. I gave him time in the hopes that he would move on, but to be honest, both of us have lost our way."

"You really care about him," Quỳnh says softly, watching Andromache's face soften. Her smile is gentle, almost sad, and Quỳnh wishes she could take it back.

"Of course I do," Andromache says, reaching out for Quỳnh's hand, "I suppose I see a kindred spirit in Sébastien. I care about those who pass through my realm, even the ones who deserve endless punishment."

Quỳnh swallows hard, Andromache's hand cool and firm against her own. Andromache pulls them to standing, suddenly far closer than Quỳnh had expected. This close, Quỳnh can smell the spice of Celeste's incense lingering around Andromache.

"Your heart is just as large as your realm," Quỳnh says as Andromache laughs. There's a pink cast to her face, as though she has sat too close to the fire and Quỳnh can't stop herself from reaching up. Quỳnh's fingertips graze the warmer skin of Andromache's cheek as her eyes widen.

"I care about all who are in my realm," Andromache murmurs, swaying closer to Quỳnh. Quỳnh inhales sharply, watching Andromache's eyes flit from Quỳnh's lips and back. Andromache holds her free hand, caged in by Quỳnh and when Quỳnh leans in, Andromache is the one who leans back.

"Come, let's rejoin Lykon and Sébastien," Andromache says, clearing her throat. Quỳnh's heart pounds in her ears as they descend slowly, the rushing of her heartbeat the only thing she hears for quite a while.

===

The garden is struggling.

It is a sprawling affair now, so different than when Nile first arrived at the temple as a small child, still clinging to her mother's hand. Her first visions had been in this very garden, the scent of soil and growing things all around her.

Now, the plants that had been thriving only a moon ago are withering, the leaves drying out no matter how they change the watering schedule, Fatima tells her. Nile slowly walks the garden, the sun setting on a day that is cooler than most. She touches the leaves, gasping when one breaks off in her hand.

"How long?" Nile asks, watching Fatima push herself over to the vine that had once been heavy with hundreds of small flowers. Their perfume had hung over the temple; the scent of an endless summer.

Fatima's wheeled chair glides easily over the smooth stone, bringing her closer to Nile. She sighs heavily, fingers coming up to push her scarf off of her hair. The scent of the oils they share for their conditioning fills the air between them.

"A moon and a half? Maybe more," Fatima says, running her hand over the braids criss-crossing her scalp. She looks tired and Nile sits beside her, offering her hand in comfort. Fatima laughs sadly, hooking their hands together. Fatima's hands are rough from working in the dirt, dark brown just like Nile's own skin, though Fatima's skin is broken up by pale patches.

There's a large pale patch at the bend of Fatima's elbow that Nile has kissed more times than she has seen stars fall from the sky.

"I don't know what to do," Fatima confesses, leaning to rest her head against Nile's arm. Nile kisses her temple lightly, looking at the garden as it wanes, like the moon above.

"Quỳnh will soon be gone for two moons," Nile remarks thoughtfully. Fatima looks up to her, eyes gone thoughtful.

“Do you think that has something to do with it?” Fatima asks, winding her fingers with Nile’s. They are dusty from working in the soil, as Nile squeezes her hand gently. Nile inhales slowly, taking in the scent of the blooms that have yet to wilt.

“I think that nothing is a coincidence,” Nile says. She turns to look at Fatima, taking in the familiar smile that greets her in the mornings as they greet the day together. She opens her mouth to speak when the world falls away.

The air has gone colder and she blinks away the image of the garden and Fatima's hand curled around her own to the image of glassy black halls. Nile breathes slowly, hearing the howl of lost souls as Quỳnh watches two men walking. One of them holds a harp and the other walks behind him, nervously worrying his fingernails. They walk through the dark halls and Quỳnh stands with a woman, tall and pale, a crown set upon brown hair. Nile blinks again, sitting amidst green and growing things with Fatima cradling her hand and humming softly.

“Welcome back,” Fatima says as Nile kisses her softly. Nile opens her mouth to say something when she hears the temple watchers call out her name. She hurries to the entrance, watching the horses kick up dust and she can just make out the head coverings that protect their faces. They stop near the base of the temple steps, coverings pushed back soon.

This would worry Nile were there more than two. Still, even a pair of them could be trouble, but she looks upon them with the same feeling as when she first met Quỳnh when she was a girl. She knows them somehow.

They're of a similar height, their horses obviously well-cared for. Nile watches them unload their horses, overwhelmed with curious acolytes. They look to each other, one with heavy curls that slip over his forehead and the other with light hair pulled back from his face. She watches them have a silent conversation before they start to unload everything they have to the people around them.

The blood of the battles has barely washed away, the grass around the temple fading from it's usual bright green. The leaves around them are changing, brilliant colors as the air turns with a chill. She walks down carefully, stopping to grieve with those who have been left behind. One of the women passes her a weapon, a short-sword that she's trained with, one that can be secured to the belt at her hip. A belt that Quỳnh had made for her on her last celebration day.

Nile wonders if Quỳnh has found her answers yet.

"I am Nile, the Oracle of this temple. Is there a reason you have come here?" she asks, watching their eyes widen. The two have a whispered conversation in a mix of dialects, darting glances cast her way. She sees eyes focus on the short-sword, before they glance to each other and back to her.

"I am Yusuf and this is Nicolò. I think we have a story you would like to hear."

===

It is Quỳnh’s laughter that draws her notice.

Celeste walks slowly, taking in the slow changes that have happened in the Underworld. Maybe they were changes that would always happen but now, with Quỳnh nearby, she sees them more clearly. Celeste takes in the slick, black walls of obsidian, their depths far more translucent than before.

It lets in soft light in places and when Quỳnh and Sébastien walk by, Celeste pulls herself back into the shadows. They talk of family and of loss and she can see the pull of threads trying to right Sébastien’s past, present, and future as he accepts his fate. The harsh evidence of his death has faded, only a pale line around his throat as he listens to Quỳnh.

Celeste can see the newly embedded crystals begin to glow as Quỳnh links her arm through Sébastien’s, guiding him to Lykon. The waves rock his boat and his calm smile is soothing to her as it has been for so many years. The crystals and gems that have begun to line the walls glow, brightening the Underworld for the first time in Celeste’s long, long memory.

Lykon unerringly looks over to her, a smile on his face as he adjusts his brown robes over his arms. He braces himself on his barge pole, muscled arms flexing as he pushes himself and Sébastien away from the shore.

Quỳnh is humming as she walks through the halls, unaware of the changes she has wrought over a once dreary realm. Now, instead of grey, murky light, it is the light of pre-dawn, before the sun has fully peeked over the horizon. It is the foggy mornings that Celeste half remembers from her own life before her role in the Underworld.

It is Andromache’s smile that shows the biggest change, however.

Her face lightens, furrow on her brow gone as she sees Quỳnh, eyes bright and pleased. Quỳnh hesitates for a moment, peering up at Andromache in an almost shy way before she links their arms together. Celeste can see Andromache pause, her hand reaching up to push Quỳnh’s hair back and their blush and delight firms Celeste’s resolve to speak with Quỳnh.

Ever aware of the passing of time and the weaving of threads, Celeste knows the time is coming for Quỳnh to return.

For now, however, it can wait.

===

Incense mingles with the sea air that drifts through the open window, incense that Quỳnh remembers from her first meeting with Celeste. Quỳnh watches the careful dance of crystals and powders, the fall of dark hair over Celeste’s shoulder ever changing in length.

“Have you given any thought to your return?” Celeste asks, tipping a small stone mortar over a jar. The powder that slides out is a stormy blue and Quỳnh thinks of the ocean and of Andromache’s eyes. Celeste covers the jar, fingertips lingering as she carries the mortar and pestle to a basin, rinsing them slowly. Quỳnh watches her for a long moment, remembering that Celeste asked her a question.

“I miss the people from above, but I am going to miss those I met here more than I expected,” Quỳnh says. Celeste smiles at her, suddenly impish.

“Some more than others, hmm?” Celeste asks. Quỳnh feels her face heat up as Celeste laughs softly. Her face shifts at the sound, turning younger before settling back to the woman Quỳnh has grown used to. Quỳnh clears her throat as Celeste dries the mortar and pestle.

“If you can’t even admit it to me, I certainly hope you can admit it to yourself,” Celeste says as Quỳnh clears her throat even louder.

“I. Is it something I have to tell you?” Quỳnh asks as Celeste hums thoughtfully. She places a few of the clear and smoky crystals that have begun to line the walls near where Quỳnh takes her rest. They’re new, Quỳnh thinks, like dye that has yet to mix with the water for the dresses.

“Sometimes the power is in saying it out loud. Admitting that you want it. But I think if you know what you want, then the choice is already made,” Celeste says. She murmurs to herself, using the pestle to slowly begin to grind the crystals into a fine powder.

“What if I don’t make a choice at all?”

“To not make a choice is still a choice, Quỳnh daughter of Khanh,” Celeste says. The stone in her hands rings slightly as Quỳnh focuses on the movement. It seems random until Quỳnh focuses on it, watching the slow figure-eights that Celeste chooses. In it, Quỳnh fancies she can see a lonely future ahead of her without a choice.

“Am I the only one who has to make a choice?”

“We all have choices,” Celeste says, dusting her hands off as she goes through the motions of rinsing the mortar and pestle again. Quỳnh watches her partition out the different powders, covering them with parchment and melted wax. The wax shimmers in the firelight, taking up space in the basket that Celeste has set to the side.

“Come, help me with this,” Celeste says, cool and rough hands pressing the packets of powders into Quỳnh’s hand. The basket is light when Quỳnh shifts it over, adding jars to it, a spray of herbs tied to the handle and Quỳnh realizes that it’s the same basket she brought to Celeste with offerings.

“What is all this?”

“It is bad manners to send you back without gifts of my own,” Celeste teases, warm and friendly in her smile. Quỳnh touches the small packets with careful fingers, the drips of different colored waxes their own system as Celeste writes their names in a messy scrawl over the parchment.

It’s a kindness that Quỳnh hadn’t expected, not truly. She thinks about never coming back to this place, unless it is to linger as Sébastien does. She thinks of Andromache's lonely demeanor from when Quỳnh had first arrived and her smiles that come so much easier now.

“If I were to return,” Quỳnh says, clearing her throat as Celeste looks over to her, expectant. “If I were to return, would I need to bring more gifts?”

“I certainly wouldn’t turn them down,” Celeste says, pressing their arms together lightly, “Your gifts are an exchange for your time, Quỳnh. Choose carefully.”

Quỳnh thinks over it, nodding slowly as Celeste presses a new mortar and pestle into Quỳnh’s hands.

“I still have some time to help, then,” Quỳnh says, watching Celeste smile as they get back to work.

===

Another battle. Another set of souls to send to their rest.

Andromache strides around the battlefield, whispering words of encouragement to those who cheat the brush of her hands. She sends the others to Lykon, trusting her friend to direct them appropriately.

She makes her way to the temple, to the building Quỳnh has lived in for many years. Andromache sees the wheeled chair of the young woman she knows is Fatima, she who doesn't like close spaces, according to Quỳnh. She sees the steps and the ramp nearby, the young ones that Quỳnh has spoken of and those she doesn't yet know.

Clearing the bodies from the temple walkway are two men, hair longer than Andromache remembers. She smiles at the sight, Yusuf without a harp but a voice still raised in song. Nicolò, face so similar to the invaders, but changed from those years ago. Andromache passes them a small blessing, the sort that carried them away from her Underworld.

Nicolò's eyes glance past her, a curious smile on his face as Andromache slips away from them.

At the entrance of the temple, blood slicking the steps, lays a woman burdened by her years. Her hair is white, stained red from the blood. Around her mouth are faded black lines, given to her by the women in her family before she left for this temple. Andromache can see the tapestry of her life beginning to weave in on itself, finishing a long life of doing good.

Andromache knows this woman's life as she knows her death; she knows that her name is Ana and that she was responsible for training young acolytes. Andromache smiles at the thought of her own acolytes who once sang her name to the heavens. Ana looks up at the young woman holding her, gold metal glinting through her braids and against her dark brown skin.

"Nile, don't cry. I had a long life," Ana says, a smile on her face as she lifts a bloody hand to the younger woman's cheek. The smear of blood it leaves behind seems brighter than it should against her brown skin and Andromache kneels beside them.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it couldn't have been longer, Ana," the young woman - Nile - says, tears choking her voice and Andromache waits until the woman with white hair looks her way. Her skin is light brown, fading quickly as her wounds become too severe to hold closed. Andromache reaches out, clasping the old woman's hand in her own.

"You fought bravely. Let me take you to your peace," Andromache says, smiling sadly.

"I think," Ana says, gasping wetly, lips speckled with blood, "I am ready to rest."

Andromache feels the moment that Ana passes, her hand becoming no less substantial in Andromache's. Standing, Andromache brings Ana to her side, allowing her the moments to collect herself. She stands straighter, the ache of her many years falling away, though the white hair stays. Andromache finds that she likes this woman, a caretaker.

"I didn't want to leave," Ana says softly. She looks to Andromache and Andromache looks back. Andromache studies the deep wells of wrinkles on her face, the creases of laughter at her eyes and the kindness she knows from her long life.

"Most do not. You have lived many lives of note," Andromache says, leading her away from the temple and the blood of the battlefield. Ana scoffs, waving her hand as they pass through the doorway. Celeste stares at Andromache, eyes hopeful and wide. Andromache ignores her in favor of leading Ana to the boat that Lykon helms with a wide smile.

"I have simply taken care of those around me. It is a joy, you understand?" Ana says, standing on the shoreline, meeting Andromache's eyes. She holds onto Andromache's hand, soft skin cool against Andromache's hand and unbidden, Andromache thinks of her own mother.

"I have not felt that joy in many lives," Andromache confesses. Ana covers Andromache's hands in her own, a smile like the dawning sun over her wrinkled face. She pulls Andromache's hands to her chest, holding them carefully.

Andromache doesn't dare to breathe.

"Protecting oneself from grief does not mean you have not felt joy. Perhaps you needed a reminder," Ana says. Andromache leans over her hands, sighing heavily, pressing her lips lightly to Ana's age-spotted hands.

"Perhaps I did," Andromache says, smiling. She lets Lykon help the woman into his boat, a beaming smile on his face as he kisses each hand. He takes the coins curled in her hand, those that have been placed with her by those who love her most.

"And where should I be taking you?" Lykon asks, the weight of these many years in his voice. Andromache watches, waiting for his judgement, though she knows what her heart would like to do.

"Oh, the Meadows, I suppose," Ana says, pulling the Ferryman down to kiss each cheek with a smile. Lykon laughs joyously, the very sound making the Underworld seem less dark and Andromache takes comfort in the sound.

"No," Andromache says, stepping forward to join them in the boat. "You have lived many lives of note. And now you go to your rest."

Andromache watches the wonder spill over the woman's face, Ana stares at her, eyes welling; when they spill, Andromache is there to wipe them.

The doorway to the Elysian Fields is wide and bright, sun streaming out of it and the laughter that spills from it is welcome. Andromache has not felt such warmth or welcome since she was a child.

"Oh. It’s beautiful," Ana says, looking over the fields with tears rolling down her face. Andromache watches her slip through the door, her shout of laughter welcome in the dark Underworld. Satisfaction rings through Andromache, tears of her own slipping down her face.

"I am very proud of you, my friend," Lykon says, beaming at her. He pulls her into a hug, holding her close and Andromache feels the weight in her chest, a weight that she has long since ignored, lessens as she takes in his smile. They drift around the Underworld, Andromache breathing easily, missing the sight of Quỳnh, watching after the drifting boat with hope lingering in her eyes.

===

As there is no true day in the Underworld, neither is there a true night. Quỳnh finds the innermost room, small table and the cot she has been sleeping on. She also finds Andromache who smiles at her, warm and welcoming.

"You must get lonely," Quỳnh says, watching Andromache place the crown on the throne as she has done for the many nights they have talked until Quỳnh's eyes burn. Andromache hums, kneeling to kindle the embers in the fireplace to a fire. It adds color to her pale cheeks, gilding Andromache's cheekbones and lips with warmth.

"I don't think about it, if I'm honest," Andromache says, lowering herself to sit on the hearth, an echo of Quỳnh's first few nights in the Underworld. She reaches for the brush and hair oil that sits nearby, sighing softly as Quỳnh waits.

"Quỳnh, you can ask," Andromache says gently, a smile across her lips that Quỳnh aches to touch. Quỳnh watches her rub the drops of oil between her hands, smoothing it over her hair before she begins brushing it. It's a ritual that Quỳnh finds hypnotic, wishing she had the courage to offer her own hands to run through the long fall of dark strands.

"Do you ever seek out companionship?" Quỳnh blurts. She sits in the chair closest to Andromache, watching those mercurial eyes scan Quỳnh's legs and body. She meets Andromache's eyes, waiting her out and fighting the urge to blush.

"Are you offering?" Andromache asks, leaning forward. Her eyes glitter, pools of light that Quỳnh thinks she could drown in. Quỳnh sways forward, her knees nearly touching Andromache's.

"Are you accepting?" Quỳnh asks, breathless. Andromache spins her brush in her hands, fidgeting with it as she takes a deep breath. It gusts out of her as Andromache reaches out, grazing Quỳnh's cheek with her cool hand.

"I would accept all that you give me. But not before you make a choice. You return to the above world and all you know sooner than you think."

"Andromache," Quỳnh says softly, staring at her. Andromache goes to pull her hand away as Quỳnh grabs it, holding tight. She presses her cheek into that cool hand, chasing the feeling as she watches Andromache's face put it's defenses up.

"If I thought I could guard my heart against what you offer, I would take you to my bed," Andromache says, leaning closer, other hand coming up to cup Quỳnh's face tenderly. "I would never let you leave, bargain be damned. This realm be damned. But it would not be your choice. And it is your choice that will need to be made."

"Is this not my choice, then?" Quỳnh asks, holding her wrists, thumbs rubbing over the thin skin there. Andromache's gaze flicks between Quỳnh's eyes and her hands, the firelight gentle and warm around them.

"Only you determine this choice. It is not disinterest that prevents me from offering you everything of me. Quỳnh," Andromache says, leaning forward, her lips whisper-soft against Quỳnh's. Quỳnh gasps hard, heart thudding painfully against her ribs. "I would keep you forever, you need only ask."

Quỳnh watches her slowly pull away, hands slipping away and Quỳnh's face feels absurdly hot. She feels as though she has spent the day on the beach, skin pinking painfully, keeping her warm through cool nights.

Quỳnh thinks of Nile's admonishments, her head pillowed in Fatima's lap, their slow slide into love a wonder to behold. Quỳnh wonders what Nile would say in this situation.

Nile, Quỳnh thinks, would have beautiful words. The poet who had wandered through Andromache's realm would have beautiful words. Quỳnh does not have beautiful words but she does have the truth.

"Can I return to you?"

"Everyone returns to me. Sooner or later," Andromache says sadly. Quỳnh winces at her own choice of words, hating the sadness that has settled over Andromache like a winter cloak, keeping her heart safe.

"Andromache," Quỳnh says helplessly as Andromache stands. She brushes her thumb over Quỳnh's cheek, a sad smile on her face. It's a smile that Quỳnh has seen before, the smile that says Andromache is thinking about the losses across her great life.

"I will see you when you wake. Please, rest easy," Andromache says. She slips out of the room, not looking back though Quỳnh begs her with all of her heart.

Quỳnh curls under the blankets, watching the fire burn down to embers until her eyes burn and slide shut without her permission.

===

After the chaos of arriving home, passing off the basket of unguents and powders that had been gifted to her from Celeste, Quỳnh finds herself seeking out the quiet fire of Yusuf and Nicolò. Nile walks beside her, hand gently curled around Quỳnh’s elbow, as though Quỳnh will slip away if she lets go.

“I thought, sometimes, that you wouldn’t come back,” Nile says. She laughs softly, following what seems to be a well-worn path now. “It did not matter that I could see your laughter, the halls you wandered. I worried that you would stay and I do not think I could bear to lose another friend.”

Quỳnh pauses, looking up to see the glow of Nile’s face as they come closer to Yusuf and Nicolò’s camp. The gold in her hair glints and burnishes her skin and Quỳnh can’t stop herself from leaning up, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“My friend,” Quỳnh murmurs, pulling Nile into a hug, “Though I have yet to decide what I will do with the rest of the life given to me, I will not leave you without a goodbye.”

Quỳnh squeezes Nile, just a bit more, pulling back to smile at her. They keep walking, Quỳnh tangling their hands as they approach the campsite.

“We were wondering when you would come to us. Hello, Nile,” Yusuf says, his smile as welcoming as Quỳnh remembers. Nile grips his forearm in greeting, slipping past to go to the other man. Quỳnh watches his smile as he greets Nile warmly and Quỳnh feels the changes keenly. Nile has made friends with these men over the months that Quỳnh has been gone.

It heartens Quỳnh to see as she turns to Yusuf.

“I am Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh,” Quỳnh says, smiling. Yusuf places a hand on his chest, tilting his head kindly.

“I am Yusuf al-Kaysani. And this is-”

“Nicolò di Genova,” Quỳnh finishes, watching Nicky’s face brighten in recognition. They lose themselves to quiet greetings, a first meeting that is more of a reunion, even after so brief a time from before.

“How long has it been, since we spoke last?” Quỳnh asks, taking the bowl of stew that Yusuf hands her. The silver rings on his fingers glow in the light of the fire as Nile passes a loaf of bread to her left, to Nicolò. Yusuf sits beside Nicolò, their thighs and arms touching as they share a bowl like Quỳnh and Nile.

“Perhaps, if I tell you from the beginning, your own journey will make more sense,” Yusuf says, dipping his bread into the stew that burns Quỳnh’s lips pleasantly. She hums in agreement, watching them as Nicolò and Yusuf share a glance, full of meaning.

It is Nicolò who speaks first.

“Six years ago, I came to these shores as an invader. It was wrong and I will forever apologize,” Nicolò says, eyes cast down, focused on the flames as Quỳnh watches Yusuf gently rub his back.

“I was injured. Left behind. And I was given an extraordinary kindness in that I was taken in. As I healed, I learned more about the land I was in. I tell you this because to know Yusuf is to know love, and the love of my life was the people I have been taught to hate. But he forgave me when I couldn’t forgive myself. Three years ago, we committed ourselves to each other,” Nicolò says, eyes slowly looking from Yusuf to Nile and Quỳnh. Nile passes the cup of water to Quỳnh, the water cold and soothing after the heat of the spices in the stew.

“Two years ago, I awoke to find our home empty. Not an unusual occurrence,” Yusuf says, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. Quỳnh watches Nicolò’s face twist, pain crossing it for a moment, his hand going to his ankle absently.

“I am the later riser of the two of us,” Yusuf says, humor shining on his face. Sparks from the fire flit around the night sky, their light gilding Yusuf’s dark curls. “I rose, made my morning prayers and noticed that I had not seen Nicolò in some time. I left our home and that’s when I heard it.”

Yusuf takes the water that Nicolò pushes into his hands, sipping at it as he looks to Nile and Quỳnh. Quỳnh feels a shaky sort of nerves thrum through her, knowing the story in parts; having seen parts of this story already.

“It was like a buzzing in my ears, urging me on. Like I knew what must be done, that I must be the one to see it. And I saw him, in a clearing, breathing his last. I do not remember much beyond that, only that I held him as he died. I remember seeing something out of the corner of my eye,” Yusuf says, looking over to Quỳnh steadily. Her heart stutters.

“Andromache,” Quỳnh breathes out. Yusuf smiles at that, nodding to her.

“I had heard stories. The same stories we all hear. Go to this crossroads on a full moon and you may ask for news of the one you love. Visit the woman by the sea and you can be granted a gift,” Yusuf says. Quỳnh’s breath catches, remembering Celeste and their first meeting.

“I waited for a full moon, a week after Nicolò’s passing. I made my way to the crossroads and I found myself in a realm that few are granted a vision of. And I led my love from that place.”

“It wasn’t a week for you, was it?” Quỳnh asks Nicolò. Nicolò shakes his head slowly, leaning into Yusuf’s side.

“I could not tell you how long it was, only that anytime I am away from Yusuf’s side is an eternity,” Nicolò says, the plain statement as romantic as any poetry Quỳnh has heard. Yusuf presses a gentle kiss to Nicolò’s temple, smiling against Nicolò’s hair.

“And when you returned to your village?” Nile asks, leaning forward, “How did you explain that Nicolò was no longer dead?”

“We told them the truth. We had no reason to lie,” Nicolò said, tangling his fingers with Yusuf’s, smiling softly. “We lived in peace for over a year until we started to dream. I dreamed of a temple that needed protection and he dreamed of a woman seeking answers. We arrived six weeks ago and have been waiting on you in the weeks after.”

“Waiting on me? Why?” Quỳnh asks, confusion ringing through her. Nicolò exchanges a loaded glance with Yusuf as they look back to Quỳnh and Nile. There is kindness on their faces, the kind that allows Quỳnh to relax with them, as though they have known each other for many years.

“I believe it is destiny. We were meant to find each other. Perhaps we have simply been on different paths,” Nicolò says and Quỳnh is treated to the bright smile Yusuf sends his way, the kind that makes Quỳnh long for the woman she left in a realm of her own ruling.

“It seems we are on the same one now, then,” Quỳnh says, watching their smiles grow and Quỳnh sits back, relaxing slowly, as their gentle conversation winds around her in the light of the fire.

===

The altar looks far better than it had, months ago, when Quỳnh first approached it. Free from dust and dead leaves, Quỳnh finds herself adding more and more simple decoration. Small offering jars, ready to hold little treats that she knows will make Andromache’s face crease into that rare beaming smile.

She leaves pieces of moonstone there, the kind that reminds her of Andromache’s soft, pale skin, like the snows of winter had settled onto her shoulders. Quỳnh rubs a thumb over the smooth and polished stone and fancies that she’s running her fingertips over Andromache’s shoulders.

Quỳnh knows that for her decision to be truly made, she has to say it. She has to give it voice and there is still far too much to set into place for her to do so. Instead, she sits, imagining that she can feel the touch of Andromache’s cool hands on her own.

“I brought something for you,” Quỳnh says, smiling. The rock in her hand is not large, only the size of an apple, polished after her weeks at home. It splits easily, already cracked open and ready for display.

“This is a gift from myself and Yusuf and Nicolò. They found it and knew it belonged to me. Well, us,” Quỳnh says. “It’s said that it promotes healing from within, but I know how you’ll roll your eyes at that.”

Though the rock is dull on the outside, polished to a shine as it is, the inside is filled with crystals that remind Quỳnh of the Underworld. Small and large grey crystals shine, rimmed in white, gleaming in the morning sun. She presses a kiss to the outside of one half, unable to stop her own flight of fancy.

“I’m keeping the other half. Until I come back to you. It’s a promise, Andromache,” Quỳnh says, smiling. There are bees in the garden at the temple now, cared for by Nile’s careful and calm hands. It allows Quỳnh to leave fresh honeycomb on the altar, gathered that morning. She places it there, smiling.

“Until next time,” Quỳnh murmurs, imagining that the gust of wind is Andromache letting her know she’s close.

After talking to Yusuf and Nicolò about their own travels through the Underworld, Quỳnh hopes that it is just that.

===

Bees, Quỳnh finds, are soothing to keep.

Or, at least, they are soothing to watch Nile keep. Her motions are slow and gentle. Nicolò helps with inspecting the hive. Quỳnh watches them with Yusuf, his charcoal gliding across the page in soft, sketchy lines, capturing the motion. Nicolò wafts the smoke over the hives as Nile checks the progress of the newest combs.

Their conversation is quiet as Quỳnh watches, smiling to herself. Yusuf hums to himself, the sound soft and absent, making her breathe a little easier. It gives her the comfort she’s been seeking out since she returned.

“You’re very good,” Quỳnh says, watching Yusuf scrunch his face up like she’s seen Nicolò do. She hides her grin at the little quirks they’ve surely picked up from one another.

“I have a long way to go, but thank you,” Yusuf says, smiling at her. He wipes his charcoal stained fingers on the grass beside them, crushed blades scenting the air underneath the smoke from the hives. “I much prefer painting, if we are to be honest. Painting and music.”

“I remember the music,” Quỳnh says, swallowing hard. She thinks of glissandos and tears, her own and Yusuf’s. She thinks of Nicolò following Yusuf in silence, listening to his words and his songs. She clears her throat, thinking of the hope in Andromache’s eyes as they reached the end of their journey. Yusuf meets her eyes and smiles a little.

“It certainly wasn’t my favorite journey, but it gave Nicolò back to me. And I think your own will take you back to your Andromache.”

Quỳnh ducks her head and smiles at the thought of Andromache being hers. Yusuf squeezes her hand as Nile and Nicolò wander over. They smell of the smoke that calms the bees and Quỳnh wonders, for a moment, if it works on humans as well.

“It’s a good morning to visit the river,” Nile says, looking to Quỳnh, tilting her head. The rows of braids over her scalp are new, the pattern intricate and Quỳnh wonders if Fatima had done them the night before.

“Do we already need more pigments?” Quỳnh asks, surprised. Nile laughs softly; bright face shining in the warm sun.

“We last gathered before you left on your journey. We’ll be dying fabric again before you know it. We should take Yusuf and Nicolò,” Nile says.

The morning is warm as they walk to the river. It is so much like the morning before Quỳnh left the first time that she finds herself thinking about it more and more. The walk is easy between four people, sharing supplies and their laughter lighting the way. Yusuf is quick to tell stories, hands gesturing expansively as Nicolò adds in his own sly comments.

Quỳnh laughs harder than she has in a very long time, lightness suffusing her chest like the sun rising. She wonders what Andromache would think of all this and says as much to the others.

“Tell us about her,” Nile says as they gather roots from the river. Yusuf and Nicolò are collecting the madder roots, rinsing and drying them before they hand them off to Nile. Quỳnh finishes tying her chiton’s skirt around her legs before she heads into the deeper water. Yusuf and Nicolò are watching her, Nile’s serene humming filling the air.

“Andromache,” Quỳnh says, smiling as she sinks into the water. It’s cold at first, but welcome, burbling like it’s saying hello after such a long absence. “She seems like the river. Cold at first until you know the twists and turns. I thought she was cold and I was wrong.”

“Being wrong is the first step to learning something new,” Yusuf says, smiling as Nicolò dips down, pressing a kiss to his lips as he carries a handful of madder root over to Nile. Nile wrinkles her nose at them, grinning impishly and Quỳnh can see the young woman she is, rather than the prophetess that everyone else sees.

“Incurable romantic,” Nicolò calls out, smiling as Quỳnh pries up water hyacinths by the root. Their purple flowers are fragrant and she makes quick work of them.

“He’s right though,” Quỳnh says, with effort. Her fingers dig into the soft silt, seeking out all the connective roots of the hyacinths. She looks over to them, smiling.

“I have never met anyone like her. She grew to be more open as I got to know her. She allowed me to see her and I don’t think that’s easy. Andromache is a guide and all I can think is that I was guided to her for my whole life. It isn’t a coincidence that I ended up at this temple, so close to the Guardian. It isn’t a coincidence that I have spent most of my life seeing her out of the corners of my eyes,” Quỳnh says, pulling on more of the hyacinths.

She walks over to the bank, hands rinsed free of the silt, making quick work of the flowers from the leaves and roots, which she lays out on the bank of the river. Yusuf comes over, peering at the hyacinth petals and smiling when Quỳnh sits in the water.

“I think I was meant to find her. I was meant to remind her what she is supposed to do with her realm, but I think she was meant to show me what I want my life to be. I spent so long simply doing what others wanted that I forgot to make my own choices,” Quỳnh says. Nicolò sits on the bank beside Nile, smiling at Quỳnh. It is as if he and Yusuf have always been here.

“And what choices are you going to make now?”

Nile looks at her, a knowing smile drifting over her lips as Quỳnh laughs, suddenly breathless.

“I’m going back to her. Not in death. But I want to be hers. And I want to care for the temple grounds when I’m here,” Quỳnh says as Nile throws her arms around her. Quỳnh laughs, eyes burning as Nile holds her close.

She knows, deep in her soul, that somewhere Celeste is smiling, waiting for her to come back.

===

There’s a change, after Quỳnh goes home, in the way the souls approach Andromache. Or, more precisely, in how Andromache approaches them. She finds herself walking with the souls who have yet to find peace, offering comforting words before she lets Lykon take them away.

She holds those who wail with grief, their grasping hands holding her close while their sobs echo through cavernous halls. Andromache looks for familiar faces - those from Quỳnh’s temple, ones she has seen before.

“Will they be okay?”

The voice is small, her round, dark brown face tilted up to Andromache without a hint of fear. She looks curious and Andromache finds herself crouching to be on a level with her.

“Death is often hardest on those left behind. But they will find ways to remember you and be happy,” Andromache says, watching the girl reach out. Her fingertips are gentle where she touches the chains on Andromache’s crown and they move in silence, tracing the length around Andromache’s chin.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Basamat. And you are Andromache,” she says, smiling as Andromache nods slowly. The chains swing as Basamat reaches out, touching gentle hands to Andromache’s long hair.

“I was sick for a long time,” she says, drawing the sound out, “Quỳnh said you were kind and I shouldn’t be scared though.”

“What else did Quỳnh tell you?” Andromache asks, standing and taking Basamat’s hand. Basamat curls their fingers together, swinging their arms as Andromache walks through the halls and past Sébastien and Lykon.

“She said that she misses you. And you should look at your altar,” Basamat says, smiling up at Andromache as she lets her hand fall out of Andromache’s, bounding over to Lykon. The banks of the river are cheerful like they always are for children, Lykon’s dramatic gestures making Basamat laugh in delight as they board his boat. Sébastien smiles after them, the expression only touched by the melancholy that lives in his soul.

“Walk with me?” Andromache asks, looking over to the man who has been her friend for many years. The sadness that once lingered around them both seems lighter, as though someone has picked up the other end to lighten the load.

“You seem lighter now,” Sébastien says, looking around the caverns filled with glowing moss and motes of light that glow brighter as Andromache passes. “You used to be so sad and listless. It is a nice change, my friend.”

Andromache huffs softly, smiling as they bump elbows. She links her arm with his, the firm bulk of him a familiar comfort. They stroll leisurely, companionable silence winding around them like the rivers nearby.

“You are looking well,” Andromache says. Sébastien’s neck, once covered in a livid weal of rope burn and bruising, has faded. Before her eyes, it simply looks cold - a death of exposure rather than hanging. His eyes are sad but bright, alive, Andromache thinks.

“Your realm is too,” Sébastien says as Andromache looks around. The dark walls have grown deep recesses that seem to glow, even without light. She can see the protruding crystals that are forming like the rocks that Quỳnh broke open and left half of for Andromache. The rock, filled with glittering, cloudy grey crystals reflecting even the dim light of the Underworld.

“We are both changing, I suppose. Hopefully, for the better,” Andromache says wryly, as Sébastien laughs softly. The sound is fragile, like the heart he hid away while he was alive. He seems lighter as well while they walk together.

Sébastien follows her as she leads him to the newest altar that had appeared not long after Quỳnh returned above. The altar is small, a stub of a candle glowing softly to lead Andromache right to it. There’s a bowl, roughly shaped, and Andromache knows before she touches it that the maker’s mark on the bottom will be Quỳnh’s name.

“Is this Quỳnh?” Sébastien asks, reaching over to touch gentle fingers to the petals that have been thoughtfully scattered. Andromache laughs breathlessly, crushing one of the petals with her fingers to release the bright fragrance. Andromache closes her eyes, inhaling slowly, savoring the scent that she once had known in Quỳnh’s hair.

“If it isn’t,” Andromache says, amused, “then there is someone else out there looking to woo me.”

Andromache picks up the bowl, the contents still warm and she imagines that her hands cradle the bowl in the same way Quỳnh’s did. There’s a pastry of some sort, small round orbs that are flecked with small sesame seeds that Andromache can already taste. The syrup inside is warm and brown, smelling sweet and spiced and Andromache spoons some into her mouth.

Overwhelming sweetness and spice fill her senses, the warmth from the shaved ginger and the soft texture of the paste inside remind her of conversations with Quỳnh. Andromache hums softly, smiling up at Sébastien who watches her, bemused.

“It’s called Chè Trôi Nước. Quỳnh says they make it for special occasions. It’s her favorite,” Andromache says, remembering the way that happiness had settled onto Quỳnh’s face. Her heart thuds painfully as she cradles the earthen jar and sips at the water that must be directly from Quỳnh’s river.

“She left you honey, as well,” Sébastien says, handing a covered jar over to Andromache. Andromache holds it close, imagining that she will get to hold Quỳnh just like this one day.

That Quỳnh will return to her without the spectre of death hanging over her.

That Quỳnh will choose her.

“I miss her,” Andromache says finally, watching Sébastien’s wounds heal just that tiny bit more as he gently helps her carry the offerings away.

“I do too, my friend,” Sébastien says, his silence a comfort as much as his words.

===

The sky is dark, lit only by the gleam of stars and the sliver of the moon as she walks around the temple grounds with Nicolò.

Nicolò is a quiet presence beside her. He pauses when she does and Quỳnh cannot help but remember a time when he was the shadow and she was the watcher. She lowers herself to sit on the temple steps, gazing up at the inky velvet of the night sky. She traces the lines of constellations she learned as a new acolyte as Nicolò lowers himself to sit beside her.

“You are restless, my friend,” Nicolò says, voice soft and without judgement. Quỳnh looks over to him, his eyes resting on her easily. She sighs softly, tilting her head back so that her hair slips away from her skin for a moment. The night is marginally cooler than the day, though it is still humid.

The summer season is beginning with all of its brilliance.

She wonders what Nicolò and Yusuf will think of the meteor shower celebrations, if they will join in and raise their voices in song. Quỳnh wonders what Andromache would think of the same.

“I didn’t know I had met a part of me I was missing. I didn’t know I was missing something. Someone,” Quỳnh says, correcting herself. She gazes up to the twinkling of the stars, wondering if Andromache’s own sister watches them.

“And now?”

“The end of spring used to be my favorite. It meant we were going into my favorite season. That soon, the stars would streak the sky and it would be time for my birthday. All of my favorite foods were in season and it’s always been the happiest time for me. And now, I find my thoughts drifting back to dark halls and Andromache’s warm smile,” Quỳnh says. Nicolò huffs softly, a shy smile crossing his face.

“It is like finding home after being away,” Nicolò says as Quỳnh watches him. He pushes his hair back from his face, the strands falling back into place at his chin as he meets her gaze.

“Is that how it feels when you think of Yusuf?”

“Have you ever gone sailing, Quỳnh?” Nicolò asks, a secretive smile on his face as Quỳnh shakes her head. The lightness in his eyes is captivating, making him seem less tired than the bags under his eyes would suggest.

“It is the same sky you see on land, but somehow it is bigger. It is more vast than you can comprehend. That,” Nicolò says, touching the long chain around his neck, concealed by his tunic, “is how I feel when I think of Yusuf.”

“When I think of Andromache, it is as if I will burst from how many things I feel. As if I can’t contain them. If I could split my time with her and with the temple, I think I would know peace.”

“Who’s to say you can’t split time between here and there? Does summer stretch on forever? No. All things have a season, so why shouldn’t where you spend your time have one?” Nicolò asks. Quỳnh stares at him, stunned into silence as she mulls the thought over.

“All things have a season,” Quỳnh murmurs in agreement as Nicolò gently squeezes her hand, the night sky stretching above them like a secret.

===

The sun is high in the sky as Andromache drifts around the grounds of Quỳnh’s temple. She doesn’t feel the heat of the sun but she sees the sweat that shines on Quỳnh’s bared shoulders and she aches to taste it. To press her lips to Quỳnh’s tanned skin and taste the salt and no longer mourn the absence of her.

Andromache watches Quỳnh talk to a woman in a wheeled chair, their animated conversation flowing around the garden as she watches familiar faces mill around from other visits. Nile, the young Oracle, hands over a jar that Andromache knows is full of honey.

Quỳnh’s laughter rings through the garden and settles somewhere deep within Andromache’s chest, nudged up beside her heart. She yearns for her like she has not felt for many years.

Maybe ever, Andromache ponders, idly following Quỳnh past Yusuf and Nicolò; Nicolò’s eyes unerringly follow Andromache’s movements and she wonders, briefly, at all he sees.

Quỳnh’s steps are measured and casual as she walks to the altar that has grown in the months since Quỳnh has been back. Fruits of the harvest sit, ready for Andromache to pull them close, greedy to taste the sunshine that seems to linger after Quỳnh lays them out.

“I miss you,” Quỳnh says, using her hands to gently clear the altar of debris, adding fresh shoots and fresh flowers from the basket that Andromache had not noticed on their walk. She’s struck by the soft smile on Quỳnh’s face and she hopes that Quỳnh knows she’s there.

“I miss you too,” Andromache says, voice soft. Wind pulls at Quỳnh’s hair from her braid, dark strands drifting across her face as she smiles. She tilts her head into it, sighing softly.

“I hope you’re here. I hope the wind is you, though if the sunshine is you, if you could be a little less roasting, I would appreciate it,” Quỳnh says, grinning as she goes back to tidying the altar. She discards the ash on the plate, placing a new cone of incense there, lighting it with a flint striker. The scent is so similar to Celeste’s domain that Andromache resolves to visit her friend on her way back.

“You are radiant in the sunshine. I can taste the sunshine on your skin when you leave fruit for me,” Andromache says, watching Quỳnh slice sweet melon easily. Andromache watches her eat the melon messily, sighing as she imagines kissing those lips and tasting sweet melon there.

“I also brought you honey. Nile is very proud of her hives and sends her greetings,” Quỳnh says, arranging the slices of melon on the altar, resting beside the jar of honey. Quỳnh sits there, smoke from the incense curling around her slowly but surely, smiling.

“We rotated the crops like I read in your scrolls,” Quỳnh says, leaving a small pile of smooth river rocks on the altar. “I’m pleased to tell you that our yield is better than it’s been in years. I’m sure you’re very smug.”

Andromache laughs, reaching out to tug gently at the braid that’s draped down her back. She can’t truly touch Quỳnh like this, not when the veil between them is so thick, while Quỳnh brims with life but she wants to feel the warm sunshine on Quỳnh’s hair. She wants to smell the scent of her exertion, wishing she could follow it with her lips.

“For all that I miss you, I know that the season will come to an end and then,” Quỳnh says, pushing herself to her feet, “Then I will come to you.”

Andromache feels her heart skip a beat, stuttering back to life as Quỳnh walks away, her stomach flipping and her hands shaking as she gathers Quỳnh’s offerings close.

She had forgotten what hope felt like.

===

The last of the harvest sits in the baskets around them, cooler air drifting over them to dry the sweat on their faces and arms. Quỳnh accepts the rag from Fatima, drenched in cool water, wiping at the worst of her sweaty skin. The sun is going down as they arrange themselves in the grass, eating from the last harvest for their dinner.

“Who will care for the grounds while I’m gone?” Quỳnh asks, reclining in the garden with Fatima and Nile. The two women share a glance, Fatima passing a hand over the flat of Nile’s back. Their silence is heavy, laden with conversations that Quỳnh knows they’ve had many times before. It has been months since her return, the air cooling at night as the harvest is gathered, bit by bit. Quỳnh feels the pull around her heart, letting her know that her decision has been made but it always is more than that.

“So you’re leaving for sure?” Nile asks, voice soft and fragile. Quỳnh looks up to the stars, pinpricks of light that bring Quỳnh’s mind back to the motes of light that Andromache wielded. Her thoughts drift back to Andromache as they ever do, the memory of her smile and the measured breaths she took as she practiced with her labrys.

“I’ll come back,” Quỳnh says, shifting to cast her eyes over Nile. Nile presses her lips to Fatima’s shoulders, a lighter patch of skin that seems made for Nile’s lips. Fatima kisses Nile’s hair lightly, moving her own legs with practiced ease in order to scoot closer to Nile.

“Quỳnh, are you sure this is what you want?” Fatima asks, looking over to Quỳnh. For all that she isn’t an Oracle like Nile, she sees to the heart of things quicker than nearly anyone else Quỳnh has met.

“Have you ever met someone and thought, ‘Them. That’s my person’? That moment when you just recognize something in them that you didn’t know you were missing,” Quỳnh says, watching Fatima smile softly, brown skin creasing at her eyes in the waning light of the day.

“I think I might understand that,” Fatima says, smiling as Nile stretches out in the grass. Fatima shifts back until she’s reclining against the baskets of vegetables, straightening her legs to make room for Nile to squirm over, draping herself over Fatima. Quỳnh smiles at their closeness.

Yusuf and Nicolò wander over, a dish piled high with the fried bread that Yusuf is so adept at making. Quỳnh helps herself, sighing softly as the taste of the fragrant spices and oils that Yusuf and Nicolò use so skillfully.

“So you are leaving then?” Yusuf asks, trading fried bread for fruit from Nile. There’s a bone-deep satisfaction in the four of them becoming friends as if Quỳnh has had a hand in it.

“Someone,” Quỳnh says, smiling at Nicolò, “told me that all things have a season. Perhaps my time is one of those things.”

“What do you miss most from your time with her?” Fatima asks. Nile feeds her with a tender smile. They share a kiss while Quỳnh thinks over it.

“I miss her point of view. Despair was part of her for so long, but when we would talk, I could see the hope she was scared to let herself feel. It was like if she hoped for something too much, something else would take it away. I miss her sly little jokes and the way that Lykon could make her laugh,” Quỳnh says, smiling to herself. She thinks about pale skin shining through dark blue fabric--alabaster shining in the moonlight, she fancies.

“She has a sweet-tooth. She eats honey directly out of the jar, comb and all. She’s wry and intense and I didn’t think I would ever feel like this. But I do,” Quỳnh says. Nile laughs softly, tilting her head to rest it on Fatima’s shoulder.

“I like the light in your eyes when you talk about her,” Nile says, meeting Quỳnh’s eyes, “but I will miss my friend.”

“I will return,” Quỳnh says, leaning over to squeeze Nile’s hand, smiling at the others as she does so. “You are the other parts of my heart. Of course I will return.”

Nile curls her hand around Quỳnh’s firmly, an impish smile crossing her face.

“I know you will,” she says, winking. Quỳnh snorts, laughter from her friends filling the garden as the night grows long.

===

The route to Celeste’s home is simple, an easy day of travel, the kind that leaves you feeling more settled at the end. Quỳnh packs her small provisions, enough to see her through her journey to Celeste’s many doors and more opportunities.

Her bag is light, only enough to see her through a day or two of travel, easy enough to carry on her back. Quỳnh layers her chitons in - the red of the madder root darker than it was on her first journey and the blue from the water hyacinth as refreshing as a light sky after a summer storm - and on top of those, she lays the wrapped opals that Quỳnh had traded for. They shine like the shafts of sunlight that often made their way through the gloom, gleaming on the throne and Andromache’s own fair skin.

“What offerings are you taking this time?” Nile asks as Quỳnh pads into the garden, barefoot in the morning dew. The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, the watery light like the paintings that Yusuf sold in the market. She has one of the river, wrapped on her bed, ready to go with her on her journey.

“Yew, garlic, and oak in a wreath. I’m going to collect some cypress on my way again. I thought I would offer her some honey from your hives,” Quỳnh says, watching Nile’s smile grow, “and I have some of the pigments that Yusuf and Nicolò helped with.”

“Take some of the Pasteli that Selene made. Your Andromache will enjoy that, I think,” Nile says. Quỳnh thrills at the idea of Andromache being hers and the greedy delight that will cross her face at the prospect of something sweet. Her face warms at the thought of finally being close enough to Andromache to touch again, to kiss the joy from her lips, even while Nile snickers, knowing her thoughts.

“When will you leave?” Nile asks as Quỳnh reaches for the basket set aside. Aside from the various fruits and vegetables, Quỳnh nestles the jarred pigments in the corner, along with new brushes that feel less like an offering to Celeste and more like a gift. Quỳnh lowers herself to sit on one of the raised beds for vegetables, the chill of the ground seeping through. Nile sits beside her as Quỳnh sighs softly, putting an arm around her friend.

“I thought I would leave after the morning meal, so I can say goodbye to everyone,” Quỳnh says. Nile hums, leaning against her firmly. She’s warm and smells of the sweet oils that Fatima and Nile share in their hair.

Quỳnh commits the scent to memory, knowing she will miss her friends but also knowing she’ll return.

Fatima, Yusuf, and Nicolò join them slowly, Nicolò’s arm draped over Quỳnh’s shoulders as they watch the sun rise, slowly burning off the fog.

Later, full from the meal and the love of the family she chose for herself so many years ago, she sets off, walking a path that feels as familiar as the temple grounds. The walk is quiet, birdsong in the air and dust from her steps swirling through the air. Her chiton’s skirt sways around her legs and their confident steps as she hums quiet working songs that she learned from Yusuf and Nicolò.

She stops in the same glade as she had before, filling her basket with fragrant boughs of cypress. The jars of pigment - some already mixed with oils and some still in powder form, nestled away from the eggs on the other side of the basket - clink gently, musical in the quiet glade. Quỳnh listens to the birds, watching the other wildlife darting around her quiet stance as she eats one of the honey cakes that Fatima had pressed into her hands before she left.

It tastes like her childhood, like the first thing she learned to make when she came to the temple. She touches the spare cakes, each set aside for a different person as she drinks deeply from the skin of water.

Rested, basket full, she continues on down the road.

There is a rhythm to any journey, the fall of her steps and the patterns of her thoughts. She loses herself to remembering conversations, to the memory of smoothing fingers through Nile’s hair, twisting the braids into a crown like she so deserved. Quỳnh thinks of Yusuf and Nicolò’s kind smiles, the way that they understood her feelings about Andromache, about the role of the Underworld and what it can and does mean for Quỳnh. Fatima, with her light laughter and cautious hope.

She thinks of the children, asking her about Andromache and about the Underworld as sickness took their small bodies to rest. Quỳnh wonders if any of the young children made their way to Andromache’s throne; if they greeted Andromache like Quỳnh had told them to.

The sun is beginning to sink as she moves from the dirt road to more and more rocks to step over. The path changes as does her goal. Quỳnh looks for the stairs, basket banging against her thighs.

The ocean crashes onto the beach to her left. Her feet find the uneven steps easily, knowing just where to place her weight until she is standing in front of a door that is all too familiar. It has been months since she has stood here, hand poised to knock.

Quỳnh wonders if Celeste knows already about her choice, if Celeste has followed her thought processes the way she followed threads of fate in the Underworld.

She wonders what the loom says of her life, if it is a tapestry in the making or if it is a tangle of threads, meant to be cut loose.

The knock echoes, like throwing a stone into a deep lake.

Quỳnh shifts nervously, switching the basket between her hands as the door opens on Celeste, her hair and face in a constant state of change as she smiles upon seeing Quỳnh.

“Welcome back, Quỳnh, daughter of Khanh.”

===

The hall leading to the throne room is quiet, save for her own soft footsteps, and Quỳnh finds herself marveling at the lighter atmosphere. The once shadowed realm shines with brief spots of sunlight, pushing darkness away save for the corners. A hall that had once been like a forest after a fire, heavy with ash and sorrow, is now like a forest on the edge of fresh growth. On the slick obsidian walls are generous sprays of quartz crystals, so like the geode half that Quỳnh had left for Andromache. She touches them gently, smiling softly to herself as she slips into the throne room.

It seems that the obsidian walls are less imposing, welcoming in their way. Lower and smaller than before, the throne seems approachable and Quỳnh can’t resist wandering to it, touching the smooth stone. Ringing the edges are different stones, crystals, and new carvings, made to look like a crown even while Andromache isn’t there.

In the distance, she can hear water, gently burbling nearby and even that is different in a place that was once nearly silent. She hears laughter and when she looks out toward the river, she can see the hint of Lykon and Sébastien bent towards each other in mirth.

It’s only the sound of footsteps that prevent her from calling out.

She turns, seeing pale skin and where she expects long brown hair, she sees nothing. Quỳnh stares at the changes, the high cheekbones that she aches to press her fingers to and above that, gentle eyes full of shock and wonder. Her hair is short, cropped close and the sweep of hair over her forehead draws all the attention to her face. The face that Quỳnh has been dreaming of.

“You cut your hair,” Quỳnh says inanely. Andromache's face is as still as the statues Yusuf sketches, apart from her trembling lower lip.

“Quỳnh,” Andromache croaks, stumbling down the steps to stand before Quỳnh. Over her short hair, the crown seems lighter, as though her hair was weighing her down as much as the crown. Andromache’s eyes drift around and Quỳnh sees the glitter of quartz that’s pinning the long sleeves of Andromache’s deep amethyst chiton. Quỳnh takes in the smooth slope of Andromache’s neck and wonders, briefly, what the thud of her pulse would taste like.

Andromache’s eyes shine in the dull light, sparkling like the crystals embedded into the walls of the once austere throne room.

Quỳnh aches.

“Andromache.”

It is Quỳnh who moves first, a soft sob leaving her throat as she flings herself into Andromache’s arms. Andromache catches her with strong arms that do not waver, clinging tightly. Quỳnh buries her face in Andromache’s neck, breathing in the scent that Quỳnh has never been able to describe.

It is the scent of soaking off sweat at the end of a long day, salt air nearby, and the tang of struck metal.

It is sweet, like the honey that Andromache gleefully devours.

“You’re here,” Andromache whispers. Andromache presses their foreheads together, rubbing their noses together for a moment, breathing the same air. Quỳnh’s heart races as if she had just fought a battle, her own hands shaking as she traces the cropped hair that Andromache now has.

“I told you I would return,” Quỳnh murmurs, feeling the shuddering breath Andromache draws in rather than hearing it. Quỳnh pulls back, watching Andromache’s cheeks flush gently, her lips parting just a little and her voice is as welcome as it ever has been.

“Is this you making a choice?”

Andromache sounds hopeful, impossibly young. Quỳnh sweeps her fingers over the planes of her cheekbones, skin so soft as she touches Andromache in reverent passes. Her fingertips linger over the quartz that’s so like the geode that Quỳnh had left for her. Quỳnh smiles and leans in, pressing their foreheads together again.

“My love,” Quỳnh says, watching Andromache’s eyes widen, the soft hitch of her breath. This close, Quỳnh can see the tears beginning to pool in Andromache’s eyes, showing her her tender heart that Quỳnh loves so much. “I will always return to you.”

Andromache closes her eyes, something like peace slipping over her strong shoulders, settling her as she pulls the crown off of her head. The clang of dropped metal would startle Quỳnh but for the sudden press of Andromache’s lips to her own.

Kissing Andromache isn’t like standing in the middle of the storm, the way that Quỳnh would have once imagined. Kissing Andromache is like returning to the river at Quỳnh's temple; the pull of Andromache's lips is as inexorable as the gentle current. She loses herself to cool lips against her own, soft and plush as she tastes the shape of Andromache’s smile, drunk on it.

Quỳnh litters kisses across Andromache’s face, whispering endearments in the language of her childhood, secure in the knowledge that Andromache understands her as she always has. She feels the flutters of Andromache’s eyelashes when her lips press over them, the soft laugh from Andromache light and wondering.

Andromache tugs on Quỳnh’s hands, leading her down the familiar hallway, past the room of scrolls and the fireplace that Quỳnh had once slept in front of. The bed that Andromache lays Quỳnh down on is soft, fragrant with fresh rushes, rustling as Andromache gently hovers over Quỳnh.

“I would keep you for all of our days and more,” Andromache whispers, smiling at Quỳnh. She seems lighter than Quỳnh has ever seen her; her words sound more like a vow than any promise Quỳnh has ever made.

“And I will be kept. I might go back to my temple from time to time, but I will always return to you,” Quỳnh says, sliding her hand along Andromache’s neck to cradle her face. Andromache presses her face into Quỳnh’s hand, eyes slipping closed as Quỳnh kisses her hard.

Andromache surges against her as Quỳnh rolls them, nipping gently at Andromache’s lips. Quỳnh loses herself to it, only thinking of Andromache and the fact that she is finally here: that all of her choices have brought her here, holding Andromache close and touching that soft, pale skin. Andromache hums softly, her grin turning sharp as they quickly strip each other’s clothing off, laying bare against the other.

“You are so pale,” Quỳnh murmurs, distracted by tasting the slope of Andromache’s neck, thrilling at the thudding pulse beneath her lips. Andromache laughs, breathless and full of joy.

“Well, I do live in the Underworld,” she teases as Quỳnh scowls, trying not to laugh. Quỳnh catches sight of Andromache’s bright eyes, mischief sparkling in them as she tangles her legs with Quỳnh’s.

“So clever,” Quỳnh says, rolling her eyes fondly; brimming over with love like a kettle left too long over the fire. Andromache laughs then, skimming her fingertips along the curve of Quỳnh’s hip, pale digits splaying over the silvered marks there.

“I feel as if I will come back to myself and realize I have been daydreaming you being here,” Andromache says, tracing the lines that appeared as Quỳnh grew. Quỳnh trails her hand down the long slope of Andromache’s bare back, touching the soft skin there in the way she has dreamed about for months on end. Andromache sighs into her neck, relaxing slowly even as her hips hitch closer to Quỳnh.

Their desire sparks back into life as Quỳnh rolls them over, Andromache beneath her as Quỳnh takes her time, tasting all the ways Andromache has been made. Quỳnh listens to her breathing, the hitches in it as Andromache gasps and cries out when Quỳnh sinks her teeth into Andromache’s collarbone. The sound that Andromache makes as Quỳnh slips her fingers inside, filling Andromache until she keens in the silence of the room, thighs quaking.

Andromache tastes sweet when Quỳnh kisses her, fierce and wanting unlike anything else from Quỳnh’s life. Andromache whispers to Quỳnh in the languages of her youth, that Quỳnh still manages to understand, red flushing across her cheeks and chest. Sweat beads on her forehead and glistens on her breasts as Quỳnh wraps her lips around Andromache’s nipple.

Quỳnh’s name rings through the bedroom, Andromache’s cunt clenching on Quỳnh’s fingers like an earthquake made all the sweeter by the slick sounds as Quỳnh eases her over a second peak only a few moments later. Andromache is hot and slick around Quỳnh’s fingers, Quỳnh’s own center fluttering as if they had come together. Quỳnh litters kisses over Andromache’s breasts and collarbone, tasting the sweat in the hollow of her throat.

“You are beautiful, my love,” Quỳnh murmurs, the language of her childhood slipping out of her mouth as Andromache gazes at her blearily. Her eyes are hazy with pleasure and her lips are red from where she’s been biting them. Quỳnh leans up, kissing them gently, fingers still trapped inside Andromache.

“Quỳnh,” Andromache whimpers, shifting restlessly. Quỳnh feels equally restless, unable to stop the shifting of her own thighs as Quỳnh grazes her teeth against the elegant slope of Andromache’s neck. A shiver wracks it’s way through Andromache when Quỳnh gently moves her fingers again, testing the twitch and flutter of Andromache’s muscles.

“I’m here,” Quỳnh says, hoarse with emotion suddenly. Andromache threads her fingers into Quỳnh’s hair, eyes shining as though she’s ready to impart all the secrets of her realm to Quỳnh. Quỳnh kisses her then, Andromache surging into the kiss with her hips meeting the thrusts of Quỳnh’s fingers.

Andromache comes for a third time with a wail, ripped from her mouth in a way that shakes Quỳnh to her very core. The wild bucking of Andromache’s hips and the pull on Quỳnh’s hair is as much of a claim as anything else between them. Quỳnh groans at the pull, rubbing her thighs together as Andromache shakes with aftershocks of her orgasm.

Through the room, Andromache’s breathing echoes, harsh pants as if she’s been running. Quỳnh crushes her eyes closed, shivers slipping over her body leaving her restless.

Andromache pulls Quỳnh up the bedroll, kissing her hard. Quỳnh’s hand slips free from Andromache, gripping her love’s hip, grinding closer. Here, Andromache kisses like the hurricane that Quỳnh had dreamed of for so long. All she can taste and smell is Andromache; the slick of her lips and the nip of her teeth. Quỳnh moans into the kiss, shivering hard as Andromache slips a muscled thigh between Quỳnh’s legs.

“I dreamed of you the whole time you were away,” Andromache says, hoarsely, “the way you took up space in my world, brightening it. Making this realm suddenly tenable again. The way you might feel and taste.”

Quỳnh gasps out a soft sob at Andromache’s words, murmured into her ear as Andromache flexes her thigh against Quỳnh’s cunt. Sensation sparks along Quỳnh’s spine as she rolls her hips, feeling hot lips against her neck.

“I have never wanted anything as much as I have wanted you by my side, Quỳnh,” Andromache says, shifting away. Quỳnh mourns the loss of her thigh before she’s covered by Andromache’s warmth. Her lips trail along Quỳnh’s sternum, nose bumping into the underside of one of Quỳnh’s breasts.

Quỳnh can’t help reaching out, cupping Andromache’s face gently. Andromache’s eyes warm as she presses soft kisses first to Quỳnh’s hand and then to Quỳnh’s stomach.

“I told you I would return to your side. And I will continue to do so until you send me away.”

Andromache slips between Quỳnh’s thighs, reverently pressing kisses through the thatch of hair. Quỳnh gasps softly, overwhelmed but cradled close, feeling Andromache’s breath ghosting over her core. Andromache takes her time, pressing gentle kisses along her center before her tongue slides down, gathering the wetness there.

Quỳnh gasps sharply, back bowing into her questing mouth as Andromache takes her apart. Arousal pools in her gut, like a heat wave in summer, washing over her as Quỳnh exhales shakily, hips jerking in Andromache’s firm grip.

Quỳnh groans, thighs trembling as she heaves a breath in, tipping her head back. Under her skin, tension builds with every swipe of Andromache’s tongue, time suspending itself as her heart thuds painfully.

She hovers just before the point of release, like holding her breath underwater, ready to break the surface at the last minute. Sweat breaks out over her chest and neck, shivers wracking her body as Andromache wraps her lips around Quỳnh’s clit, eyes locked on Quỳnh’s.

“Fingers,” Quỳnh gasps out. “Want your fingers in me when I come.”

The flush feels like it’s taking over her entire body, spreading and spreading like a glass of water knocked over. Andromache moans against Quỳnh’s cunt, muffled and hungry as she eases two fingers into Quỳnh. Quỳnh chokes out a moan, clenching her eyes shut as she rocks her hips into Andromache’s mouth and fingers.

Desperation floods through her veins, urging her higher and higher as sounds fall out of her mouth, Andromache’s gaze intense on her.

“Come on, love. Want to hear you,” Andromache says, lifting away. Her face is wet from Quỳnh and it sends a thudding bolt of heat through her as Andromache slides a third finger in.

Heat and pressure floods through her, overwhelming her like a strike of lightning on the beach, leaving behind molten glass. Her vision whites out, heartbeat roaring in her ears as she shudders against Andromache. Andromache coaxes her through her peak, murmuring praise into the soft skin of Quỳnh’s thigh, and when Quỳnh comes back to herself, she can only see Andromache’s smile.

Quỳnh shakily lets her legs fall open, relaxing bit by bit into the bed, hearing the rustle of rushes as their sweet scent perfumes the room under the heady scent of sex. Andromache shifts, her fingers falling out of Quỳnh as she gently lays her head on Quỳnh’s belly, tracing gentle circles into Quỳnh’s side.

The silence between them is comfortable, Quỳnh catching her breath as she gently combs through Andromache’s short hair.

“Why did you cut your hair?” Quỳnh asks, heartbeat returned to normal, sweat drying on her chest and neck. Andromache hums softly, pressing a light kiss to Quỳnh’s stomach, shifting around so she can meet Quỳnh’s eyes.

“I wore my hair like this when I was very young. I had forgotten that until we talked about our mothers,” Andromache says, trailing light kisses up Quỳnh’s front until they lay on their sides, facing each other. Quỳnh traces the lines of her brow, lingering on the laugh lines and the slope of her nose. Andromache smiles at her, eyes heavy as they curl around each other.

“You wear quartz on your chiton now,” Quỳnh says, kissing Andromache’s shoulder. Andromache laughs softly, sitting up and reaching for something beside the bed. Quỳnh whines after her, grinning when Andromache rolls her eyes fondly. Cradled in her hands is the half of the geode that Quỳnh had left for her.

“Lykon helped me with the quartz. Celeste helped with turning them into pins. I wanted to keep you with me,” Andromache says as Quỳnh pulls herself up slightly, kissing Andromache gently.

“You have me, Andromache,” Quỳnh says, pressing their foreheads together, arms slipping around Andromache’s slight frame. Andromache exhales shakily, wrapping her arms around Quỳnh tightly. They stay like that, pressed together, sharing space with one another.

“For the rest of our days,” Andromache murmurs, allowing Quỳnh to pull her to the bed, their arms holding each other tight.

Around them, the Underworld continues on, a little brighter for the happiness in the small room.

===

Though there is no true morning or evening in the Underworld, when Quỳnh wakes, she notices the gentle play of sunlight in the room. Quỳnh dresses slowly, a pleasant ache in her thighs after a night of loving Andromache and being loved in return.

She wanders the realm with new eyes, seeing the once forbidding shadows now for the cover that they provide, a hiding place like when she was young and overwhelmed. Dappled spots of light litter the floor, though Quỳnh cannot find the source. They litter the long hallway, drifting into the rooms that she glances into. Some are empty and others seem to only hold relics of Andromache’s past. She resolves to go back through those as she hears Andromache’s wry voice and Sébastien and Lykon’s raucous laughter.

“Quỳnh!” Lykon calls, beaming at the sight of her. He squeezes her hands in greeting.

At the table where she once talked with Andromache of their mothers; watching Andromache brush her long hair, aching to touch, Quỳnh now sees Andromache and Lykon, sitting and smiling up at Sébastien.

“Sébastien,” Quỳnh says, pulling him into a hug, his once ruffled uniform now sitting on his body firmly, like it belongs. His once livid wounds have faded to nothing. His skin is pale but he simply looks as if he hasn’t seen the sun in months, rather than a corpse. He is solid, cold where she would expect warmth, but the smile on his face is the most startling change. “You look well.”

“I wanted to wait until you came back,” Sébastien says, looking between them all, eyes meeting Quỳnh’s again, “I wanted to wish you farewell.”

“You’re moving on,” Quỳnh breathes out, watching Andromache’s smile broaden as Sébastien nods.

Quỳnh follows them to Lykon’s boat, Andromache laughing as she pulls Quỳnh in, wrapping around her from behind. Quỳnh tilts her head back, kissing Andromache as Sébastien laughs in delight. It’s the lightest she’s ever heard him; Quỳnh wonders if this was the type of father he was - quick to laugh and engaged.

“I knew you would come back,” Sébastien boasts.

Lykon snorts. “You did not! You’re just saying that!”

“I had every reason to expect-”

They fall to bickering as Andromache kisses the back of Quỳnh’s neck, the curve of her smile pressing to the skin there. Quỳnh reaches back, combing through Andromache’s hair, sighing. The doorway to the Elysian Fields is bright and welcoming as ever, the gentle sunshine and soft green grass beckoning them forward. Sébastien looks at Lykon and Andromache, smiling.

“My friends, I already made my farewells to my family. I will see them again,” Sébastien says, looking to the doorway, expression turning gentle and pensieve, “I might not see them soon, but I will see them again.”

“Sooner than you think,” Andromache says, pulling away from Quỳnh. Quỳnh mourns the loss of her for a moment, letting Lykon pull her to his side as Sébastien arches an eyebrow at Andromache.

“Two hundred years is a long time to stay by someone’s side because they are lonely,” Andromache says, gathering his hands to her as they all step out of the boat. Sébastien opens his mouth before closing it again. She smiles at him and Quỳnh squeezes Lykon’s waist, grinning.

“Andromache?” Sébastien asks, voice soft as the laughter from the Elysian Fields drifts their way.

“Go, my friend,” Andromache says, leaning forward to press a kiss to each of his cheeks, grinning. “They’re waiting.”

Quỳnh rushes forward, pulling Sébastien in a tight hug, hearing the shouts of childish glee growing louder as Sébastien gives a last hug to both Andromache and Lykon, stepping closer. Quỳnh hears his children calling for him, their happiness wiping away the last traces of death as he passes through the threshold, his laugh rusty but joyous.

“And how long have you been planning that one?” Lykon asks as they climb back into the boat. Quỳnh settles behind Andromache, enjoying holding her for once, grinning when Lykon winks at them.

“When his last scar faded. He had accepted it and he had already spent a few lifetimes dealing with his past mistakes. He wanted to move on for him,” Andromache says, tilting her head to the side as Quỳnh kisses the curve of her jaw, “I knew it was time.”

“You’re a far more gentle person than you’d like people to know,” Quỳnh says as Andromache scoffs. Lykon laughs, navigating the waters with ease as Andromache leans back into Quỳnh.

“That has to stay between us,” Andromache says, grinning.

“Too late, I’m telling everyone,” Quỳnh says as Andromache snorts and laughs, the sound impossibly warm as Lykon grins over at Quỳnh. Quỳnh feels light, drifting with Andromache in her arms, Lykon making sly comments that have Andromache breathless with giggles.

Heart pounding fitfully, Quỳnh thinks back to her nerves when she first made her way to the Underworld, the stern shadows and sad ruler. Now, dappled light greeting them at every corner with Andromache’s laugh echoing through the caverns, Quỳnh finds peace.

She holds Andromache close, letting the light pass over them like the sun twisting into rainbows from a prism.

Quỳnh thinks of her past and present, leading her here, like a bend in the river, familiar but different all at once.

The river that leads her home every time.

===

Death is not the end of a story and neither is a forked path.

A path only takes you as far as you follow it.

And sometimes, with understanding and love, does it take you to the rest of the story.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please give my wonderful artist some love by reblogging the [ link to her gorgeous art! ](https://iwritesometimes.tumblr.com/post/642650626330869760/sarah-sarahhhhhhhhh-you-gotta-give-your-pieces)
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://cactusdragon517.tumblr.com/)!


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